Out from Under
by MaggieMay19
Summary: "Child Protective Services... Carson Springs... when I was a kid, I spent a little time there." This is that story from Patrick Jane's childhood.
1. Chapter 1

Patrick Jane woke to the sound of shouting and hammering on the RV door. He lay in bed in the pre-dawn greyness as his dad called out, "Who is it?"

"Alex Jane? Police. Open up." More banging. His Dad came over to his bed.

"You better get up too, Paddy," he murmured to Patrick, then louder "I'm coming, I'm coming." Alex opened the door as Patrick shrugged himself into his dressing gown and followed his dad into the cool pre-dawn air.

"Alex Jane? You're under arrest for fraud." As the uniformed cop started to read his rights and handcuff him, lights began coming on in other RVs and trailers. The next door trailer opened and Josh Barsocky, a big man, stepped down followed by his wife Marie while their son Pete, another big guy, stood at the top of their steps watching. Other figures stepped out or watched from doorways as the sad scene unfolded before them.

"Josh?" Alex called out, "Can you look after Paddy 'till I get back?"

"Sure Alex," Barsocky called back. Alex turned to the cop who had taken his arm and said, "Can I have a word with my boy before we go? He doesn't have a mom, there's only him and me." The cop had been warily regarding the growing crowd of Carnies getting out of bed to witness what was going on, his hand resting lightly on his holstered gun. He was uncomfortably aware of how quickly he and his partner were becoming outnumbered. This guy didn't seem to be making any trouble for them though. No shouting or struggling, he'd come quietly enough. A family man, he thought. He just wants to look out for his son.

"Okay," he said, "be quick," and let Alex turn back to Patrick.

"Paddy," Alex said clearly. "You go stay over with Pete and the Barsockys until I get back. I'm sure this is just a little misunderstanding. I'll go sort things out with these gentlemen and I'll be back as soon as I can. Okay?"

"Okay Dad," replied Patrick, starting to feel a little anxious. 'Little misunderstanding' meant his Dad thought this might be serious. 'Sort things out' meant he needed Patrick to call a lawyer right away. 'Gentlemen' asked everyone in earshot not to make a fuss. Well, his Dad had been arrested a few times before. He always made it back a few hours later. Though thinking about it, he'd never asked Patrick to call a lawyer before. Patrick's unease deepened.

The cops took his unresisting father to their car and the small crowd dispersed back to their trailers. As they drove away Patrick turned back to his trailer to search for the address book and a quarter to make the call. Marie stuck her head in the open door.

"A sleepover, huh?" she smiled. Pete and Patrick had been best friends for years in spite of their difference in age. Pete, always tall and broad-shouldered for his age, had been unofficial big brother and frequent babysitter for all the younger Carny kids since he was twelve years old. Patrick had looked up to Pete for as long as he could remember. They had the same sense of humor and shared an interest in mechanical things: the vehicles and the big rides. Patrick's quick wit and intelligence had made up for any remaining differences. Now Pete was twenty, had been on one of the rigging crews for a few years but they still hung out together sometimes. Sleepovers hadn't happened for a while. "You coming over straight away, Honey?" Marie asked.

"Hey, Mrs B," Patrick replied. "First I just gotta make a phone call."

* * *

Patrick walked over to the trailer park's only payphone with Marie Barsocky's words still ringing in his ears.

"You calling Mister Taylor for your dad? Good. He's a good lawyer." All the Carnies had Taylor's number. He was rumored to have worked the Midway himself many years ago and was their first port of call when trouble found them in California.

Patrick hoped Taylor was a good lawyer. He knew a few of the crewmen and showies had spent some time in prison. Had that been in California? Surely if Taylor was that good they wouldn't have had to? He wondered briefly what those guys had done to be sent to prison. It wasn't something people talked about, at least not to him. Certainly when his dad had been arrested previously the worst had been a night in a police cell followed by a fine. However his dad had never been arrested first thing in the morning before, this had felt more like a raid. He'd never before told him it was serious or asked him to call a lawyer, either. Fraud, the cop had said. He found himself wondering what it was his dad could have done. They certainly hadn't pulled any scams together in the last few weeks – not since they hit California. Towards the end of the season Dad would always say it wasn't smart to muddy the water where you drank. Scams on the circuit almost always happened a day or so before they made one of the longer-distance hops to a new showground and they had planned to stay in Carson Springs until next May.

Patrick arrived at the trailer park office by the main gate. The payphone was outside. He dialed the lawyer's number and waited. He didn't have to wait long, the guy picked up the phone almost straight away and sounded alert in spite of the early hour.

"Taylor, who's calling please?"

"My name is Patrick Jane," Patrick began but the lawyer broke in at that point.

"You're not in trouble yourself are you son?" The voice sounded simply curious that he might be, there was nothing judgemental about the tone.

"No Sir. It's my dad. His name is Alex Jane, he was just arrested."

"Can you tell me where they took him?"

"No Sir, I'm sorry." Why hadn't he asked? Now Taylor mentioned it of course the lawyer would need to know where to meet up with his dad. He felt suddenly very young and very ignorant.

"Never mind, son. Was it detectives or uniformed cops who arrested your dad?"

"The Sheriff."

"Okay, I know where he'll be. I'm leaving right now. Don't worry. Can you give me your number so I can call you later?"

"Uh, I'm calling from a payphone, Sir. 916 555 9472"

"Stoney Ridge, huh? Just give me your trailer address then son, someone will drop round later."

"1327 Stoney Ridge."

"Will your mom be there all day today?"

"It's just Dad and me, Sir."

"Are you alone in the trailer now, son?"

"Uh, I'll be next door, in 1329, staying with the Barsockys. Dad asked them to look after me until he comes back."

"Okay son. Try not to worry about your dad. I'm heading over to see him right now and if he's not back with you in a couple of hours I'll drop by your trailer myself before lunchtime."

The line went dead. Patrick had liked the man's voice, it had seemed calm and reassuring. Marie thought Taylor was OK. However he'd hated not knowing where his dad had been taken and hated even more telling this stranger he had no mom.

Patrick's mind crowded with uneasy thoughts as he headed back to the RV and the dawn approached. After returning the address book he locked it up and padded over to the Barsocky's place. Marie gave him a hug and Josh squeezed his shoulder as he approached. They already had a couple of gas rings standing on the brick barbecue beside their trailer. Marie had a huge pan out and was making pancake batter while Josh was setting up a table and chairs outside – an extra body meant there was no room for everyone to eat in the trailer. It would have been too early for breakfast on a normal day but no-one was going to get back to sleep now.

Pete, now dressed, sat outside with Patrick waiting for breakfast while the sun rose and the others got up. Alone with Patrick for a moment Pete rumbled quietly, "It'll be okay. Your dad's Teflon-coated, buddy!" Then Pete's sister and her fiancé arrived at the table, chatting about their plans for the day. Patrick was grateful for that, he didn't want to talk about what had just happened. Instead Pete started talking about other things too, he was planning to do some welding practice later that day. Patrick had intended to hang out & watch but he didn't think he'd be doing that now. The first batch of pancakes arrived and in the subsequent civilized melee Patrick caught both Marie and Josh occasionally casting anxious glances in his direction. They cornered him while everyone ate and Patrick explained quietly that Taylor would be coming over if his dad didn't make it back.

"I met him a coupla times," Marie said blandly, sharing a look with Josh but not going into any further details. "He used to work the Midway, back in the day. He's one of us. You can trust him. He'll do his best for your dad." She gave Patrick a long, considering look. "You want me to wait with you?" Patrick was grateful for the offer but he wanted to talk to his dad alone when he got back. If he didn't come back he was sure his dad wouldn't want anyone else to speak to Taylor.

"No, I'll be fine. Thanks anyway Mrs B."

His last thought before he finally returned to his trailer to get dressed was how it had never occurred to him that his dad might be innocent.

* * *

After dressing Patrick busied himself cleaning up the place. It was never a mess. Living in such a small space meant both he and his dad were necessarily tidy. However today he made sure the beds were freshly made with clean sheets, all the surfaces were gleaming and the small rug was beaten free of crumbs. He took the old sheets and a few other clothes to the little laundromat at the trailer park office. The familiar domestic activity helped him keep from fruitless speculation as the morning passed with no sign of his dad. When everywhere was sparkling and everything put away in it's place Patrick had a sudden brainwave. He dug twenty bucks in small bills out of the housekeeping money, asked Marie to keep an eye out for his dad or Taylor then went visiting some of the more colorful characters who were staying in Stoney Ridge this year. They were mostly poker or drinking buddies of his dad and all had small items for Alex, in return for a small consideration.

A few minutes before twelve o'clock Patrick, changed into clean clothes after his busy morning, was sitting on his trailer steps with his eyes closed, apparently enjoying the sunshine on his face. A half-eaten sandwich was sitting unregarded on a plate next to him while he cradled a cup of tea in his hands. Inside his mind was racing and he felt a little sick. His dad hadn't made it back. It must be serious like he had said that morning. His earlier refusal hadn't stopped Marie hovering round the Barsocky's trailer casting occasional, anxious glances toward Patrick. To take his mind off what was happening he mused on what Marie has said about Taylor. How did a lawyer come to work on the Midway? No that's not the right way round, thought Patrick. How did someone who worked on the Midway manage to leave the Carnival and become a lawyer? One the Carnies still trusted, too, it seemed.

A brand new Lincoln drove onto the trailer park and round to lot 1327. Patrick could see that there was only the driver in the car, no sign of his dad. An old guy, grey haired anyway, in a dark blue three-piece suit fiddled with something on the passenger seat then eased himself out of the car, bringing with him a black leather briefcase.

"Mr Patrick Jane? My name's Simon Taylor, we spoke on the phone this morning."

"Hello Mr Taylor," said Patrick, standing and putting his cup down on the step before walking forward and shaking hands. He always aimed for slightly old-fashioned and over-the-top polite behavior when dealing with adults for the first time. It amused him how often they found him slightly unnerving. People who were outside their comfort zone often gave away a great deal about themselves without realizing. Mr Taylor, however, just took his hand, as if shaking hands with a thirteen-year-old boy was the most natural thing in the world.

"Would you prefer to talk out here or somewhere more private, Mr. Jane?" he asked.

"In private," said Patrick, eyeing Marie Barsocky and lifting the cup and plate from the steps before gesturing toward the RV. He followed Taylor up into the trailer and waved him to the bench seat behind the dining table, heading into the kitchen area as he did so. Mr. Jane? Where did that come from? People didn't even call his dad that! This lawyer didn't seem to be mocking him. The thought crossed his mind that here was someone else with an act. Taylor was aiming for the same old-fashioned polite manner as Patrick and for the same reason. Patrick smiled to himself. It was a good act, so good most people wouldn't see it was an act.

"Would you like some tea, Mr Taylor?"

"Thank you, yes," replied the man. As Patrick filled the kettle and started getting the teapot out of the overhead cupboard Taylor went on, "May I call you Patrick?"

That was a nice touch, Patrick thought. Strangers usually did but none had ever asked if it was ok before. On an impulse, feeling he was in the presence of a fellow showman, he called over his shoulder, "Call me Paddy."

"Thank you, Paddy." Taylor paused before continuing, "Your dad wanted me to tell you he's doing just fine." Patrick looked round, caught Taylor's eye and nodded before turning back to the tea. 'Just fine' meant just that, no codes. Patrick only realized he had been tense up to that point because this news had made him relax a little. That was kind of Taylor. The whistling of the kettle brought all conversation to a halt so in silence Patrick finished up, brought the tea things over on a tray and set it down in the middle of the table. He sat opposite Taylor and began pouring them a cup each.

Taylor had obviously been looking round the trailer from his seat while Patrick was busy because he'd had to turn back to face him over the table. Patrick was obscurely pleased he'd cleaned the place up. Taylor waited a moment to see if Patrick wanted to speak, then continued, "Well Paddy, I should think you have just about a million questions for me."

"Where's my dad? Why isn't he back already? What do they think he's done?" The words tumbled out and Patrick felt himself blush. He hadn't meant to be such a kid. He took a deep breath, thinking fast. _This guy is smart and he's not just a lawyer, he's a showman. He isn't treating me like I'm some stupid kid but I bet he doesn't want to tell me everything that's going on. If I don't ask the right questions he'll be able to leave things out. And I want to know everything_.

"I need to know what's going on, Mr Taylor. If Dad was here he'd tell me everything. We don't keep secrets from each other," he lied. He watched Taylor's face closely but this guy wasn't giving anything away. _I bet he's a good card player_, Patrick felt the thought drift through his mind and he filed it away for later consideration.

"What, never?"

Patrick held his gaze steadily as he replied, "Not when it's important."

Taylor smiled. "Paddy, that was very impressive. You looked and sounded completely sincere. You're a very good liar." It sounded like praise rather than disapprobation and Patrick couldn't help himself, he grinned broadly. Taylor chuckled.

"You're not angry?" asked Patrick. Taylor shook his head.

"I get a lot of practice with the act, I have to be convincing," Patrick explained.

"I guess you do," smiled Taylor. "Tell me about the act."

This surprised Patrick. He looked into Taylor's face but could only read polite inquiry there. _Maybe he just wants to put me at my ease_.

"Me and Dad do a psychic act, 'The Boy Wonder Sees All'. You know, naming things my Dad gets from the audience when I'm blindfolded, cold reading, fortune telling, that kind of thing. We do private psychic readings as well. I can do magic tricks too, close-up work, but they don't really fit in the 'Boy Wonder' act." He carefully didn't mention talking to the spirits of the departed, pickpocketing or working long cons. Some adults could be picky about those sorts of things. Even Marie had lost her temper when she found out about the pickpocketing.

"Expand your repertoire a little and in a few years you can take it to Las Vegas."

"Yeah, that's what Dad says."

"However you need to be honest with me. I'm your family's lawyer. Things could turn out badly if you're not totally honest with me or if you leave out details I need to know." Patrick thought he could hear the truth in Taylor's words and nodded his understanding. Taylor continued, "Anything you say is completely confidential between us, that's the law. I can then advise you and your dad what should be made public in court to get the best possible outcome for him. Tell me what you know about why I'm here."

"I really have no idea why Dad's been arrested. The Sheriff said 'fraud' but that could mean anything. Dad was worried when it happened, he thought it might be serious and asked me to call you. That's all I know. Dad's been arrested before," Patrick said candidly, "but this is the first time he hasn't gotten back a few hours later. Now you're here and he's not. You said he's OK but I need to know what's going on."

Taylor nodded thoughtfully then suddenly asked, "Do you want an adult here while we talk?" That seemed strange. Was Taylor stalling? Why would he do that? Patrick thought seriously about the question, after all Marie had practically asked the same thing, but he was still sure his dad was happier sharing his son with the Barsockys than the details of his arrest.

"I can't think of anyone except Dad," Patrick replied simply. Taylor looked closely into Patrick's face and his carefully bland look faltered a little. Just for a moment it seemed as though that simple sentence had unexpectedly moved the man.

"You have an aunt I think, your dad's sister? Lily? She took care of you when you were younger?

"Last I heard was a couple of months ago. She was heading back to Mexico to stay with Uncle Estaban's family. We haven't seen her in about two years."

"Would they be able to travel back to take care of you for a while?"

"No sir, if Lily's in Mexico it's because she's about to have another baby. Esteban's sister Julia is a midwife." With Esteban's mom and extended family on hand to help it made it so much easier – and cheaper – to have their babies in Mexico.

"How about your grandfather?"

"No, he died before I was born. Nana Sofia lives in Mexico but she's Estaban's mother, not really a blood relative. We stayed down there one winter. That's where Lily and Estaban went."

"I meant your dad's father, what about him."

"Uh, I don't know where he is," Patrick replied slowly, guardedly, then faster, "and I don't think Dad would want him to be involved." Taylor remained silent. "I never met dad's family apart from Aunt Lily." Taylor still said nothing but lifted an eyebrow in inquiry. The silence lengthened.

"Aunt Lily told me he used to beat dad with his belt," Patrick reluctantly continued. "Dad has scars, small ones, all over his back and legs. I've seen them my whole life. He never talked about them but Lily said one time they were from when the old bastard would use the buckle end. I don't want to find out the hard way that she was telling the truth."

"Jesus." Taylor said it quietly and looked away for a moment before catching Patrick's eye again and asking gently, "Does your dad ever hit you, Paddy?"

"No!" Patrick could tell Taylor was skeptical so he added, "His hands make fists sometimes when he gets angry but he's never used them on me. He uses words. He criticizes me a lot, tells me off, shouts sometimes but that's all." When Taylor remained silent he continued, "This last summer I made him angrier than I ever saw him before. All he did was haul me upright before he told me off. Dad's never hit me, Mr. Taylor." He hated remembering that day: the scam he still felt guilty about, his dad's fury, the hundred-dollar bill he couldn't bring himself to spend. "When he's angry with me he uses his words, not his fists." _Doesn't have to, his words are more than enough,_ thought Patrick but he didn't voice the thought. Either Taylor was satisfied with this or he decided he wasn't going to get anything else.

"You two really do just have each other, don't you? I know you want him back here, Paddy. He wants to be here too. I'm going to do my best to get him back as quickly as possible. But you need to be prepared for that to be longer than either of you might want."

Taylor broke eye contact to open his briefcase and pulled out a thin file. He flicked through it, then looked back into Patrick's face wearing a serious expression.

"Your dad set up a company last year to resell a complicated kind of financial product that might very well be illegal." Taylor could see the word 'complicated' had introduced a sullen look onto Patrick's face. "I'm not saying you wouldn't understand, Paddy, I'm saying I don't understand it. I don't think the DA really understands it either but there's been a lot of this sort of thing going on and people, voters, have been losing their money." Patrick nodded glumly. He could just imagine his dad jumping at the chance for lost money to find its way into his possession.

"The law needs clarifying. No doubt it will be, in some long-running law suit fought between the state of California and some big investment firm with deep pockets. In the mean time the governor wants to be seen to be taking action on this issue, elections are coming up. Your dad made some mistakes when he set up his company which means the DA can prosecute him now on several technicalities without having to wait for the law to be clarified. Do you follow me so far?"

"I guess," replied Patrick. He didn't. The governor and DA sounded like powerful enemies, though.

"They want a quick win and a severe penalty. They think that'll win them votes. They also want to send a message to the big financial firms out there to clean up their act and discourage any new small businesses like your dad's from starting up in order to sell this kind of thing." Taylor watched Patrick's face closely as this sank in. The governor wanted to be re-elected, the DA wanted to punish someone severely to make sure other people didn't try the same scam and his dad wasn't rich enough to fight back.

"What does that even mean, a quick win with a severe penalty?"

"I'm sorry Paddy, it means the DA wants to put your dad in prison for a long time." That was a shock and it must have showed on his face because Taylor looked at him with concern and said, "The DA won't get what he wants but I'm afraid you and your dad won't get what you want either. I'm working on sorting out a deal with the DA's office but whatever happens your dad will have to spend some time in prison."

"How long?"

"I am good at what I do, Paddy. Your dad is cooperating fully and I've already talked to the Assistant District Attorney. He won't get a long sentence."

"How long, Mr Taylor?"

"It's my job to make sure that time is as short as possible. The very best he can hope for is maybe ninety days. I can't offer any guarantees yet but I think the absolute worst he could expect would be eighteen months. It's most likely to be somewhere in between. He'd serve less time with good behavior – that just means he can get out of prison early if he doesn't cause any trouble," Taylor added when Patrick's eyebrows shot up. "I'm sorry Paddy, that's not all. You're affected too. You'll have to go into foster care until he's released."

Patrick wanted to say 'That's not fair,' but even as the thought crossed his mind the words died on his lips. If anyone knew about games being loaded against you it was the son of a Carny showman. He was ashamed to feel tears prickling in his eyes. He blinked them back and swallowed before he asked, "Can't I stay here? I can look after myself."

"I know you can, Paddy, I can see that, but the State of California says if you're thirteen then you're not allowed to."

"I could move in with my dad's friends here, I know they'd take me in," Patrick invented wildly. He wasn't sure they would at all, another mouth to feed would be expensive and bed space was rare in the family trailers. It wouldn't be for long though. Once they'd convinced the State of California he was fine he could quietly move back to his dad's RV. Taylor seemed to be reading his thoughts.

"Carson Springs Child Protective Services will only place you with registered foster parents. You'll get a social worker visiting you regularly to make sure everything's okay. I'm sorry Paddy," Taylor repeated, seeing his expression. "You're going to have to leave Stoney Ridge for a while." Patrick nodded. Of course those dice would be loaded too. This was totally outside his experience.

"How soon do I have to go?"

"When the police arrested your dad they called the CPS. They wanted to pick you up then but I convinced them to leave you with your dad's friend until I'd had a chance to speak with you. I'm supposed to take you back there with me."

"Can you take me to see Dad first? Before I go to Child Protective Services, I mean?" Taylor had been about to say no but he looked at the earnest expression on the boy's face and relented. The CPS wouldn't even notice an extra hour or so.

"Okay Paddy. Your dad's still in a holding cell at the Sheriff's office. We can stop by there on the way to the CPS."

"Can I take anything with me?" It was a simple, practical question, there had been no self-pity in Patrick's voice but the words pierced Taylor's heart and his expression faltered again. The Midway was the only world the boy had ever known. It might be a tough life but the people were tolerant of those who didn't conform to society's norms and were fiercely loyal to their own kind. Taylor knew first-hand how hard it was to leave the warm embrace of that world after just a few years in it, even though he had wanted to move on. Being forced from it, living with a foster family, with townies, would be even harder for Patrick. Taylor tried to be reassuring.

"Of course you should pack a bag. You're not going to prison, Paddy, you won't even be living that far away from Stoney Ridge. Think of it as going away on holiday." The blank look he got told him 'holiday' was as alien a concept to Patrick as foster care. He plowed on. "You're thirteen, old enough to come here to see your friends after school. I'm sure you can come back any time to pick up anything you don't pack now. I would say pack enough for a week, to start with."

"School?" Patrick had managed to sound fine about foster care but he didn't sound fine about this.

"Most kids your age do go to school, yes," Taylor replied wryly.

I've been home schooled for two years, Mr. Taylor."

Taylor could hear the anxiety in Patrick's voice. Dear Christ, he thought, the boy hasn't been to school since graduating elementary. He's bright and seems mature but he's physically small for his age and he's going to be way behind his peers at middle school. A lone Carny among hundreds of townie kids, where difference is definitely not tolerated and friendships and loyalties can shift on a daily basis. The staff will know he won't be there long, how much extra help will he get from them? And he knows it too, at least some of it.

"I'm sorry Paddy. Your social worker and foster carer will know more about it than I do," Taylor replied. His words felt like a betrayal. Patrick looked steadily at him for a few seconds too long, then shrugged in a noncommittal manner.

"May I have a few minutes to pack, Sir?"

"Of course, Paddy. I'll wait in the car."

A short amount of time later Patrick emerged, a very small old-fashioned suitcase in one hand and a cardboard box under the other arm. He locked the RV, the key vanishing into a pocket. Taylor was already out of the Lincoln and opening the trunk.

"May I say goodbye to my neighbors?" Taylor looked skeptical. "I'm not going to run, Mr. Taylor. Where would I go?" Taylor had the grace to look abashed. Patrick indicated the box. "We had some fresh food. I can't leave it in the RV and the Barsockys gave me breakfast this morning." Of course the boy would want to repay that obligation before he left, Taylor thought. That was another unspoken Carny rule. He looked into the box: milk, butter, yogurt, bread, a handful of fruit and vegetables. To Patrick's surprise Taylor took the box from him.

"Put your case in the trunk, Paddy, then we'll both go to see them. I'll carry the box for you." Patrick did so and they stepped the few yards to the Barsocky's trailer. Marie opened the door before they got to it.

"I need to go away for a while too, Mrs B," Patrick said lightly. "I didn't want to throw this away if you can use it." He gestured towards the box. Marie stepped out and gave him a long hug.

"If we can't use it we'll find someone who can." Marie turned a cold look on Taylor. "Mr. Taylor."

"Always a pleasure, Mrs. Barsocky," Taylor said, wearing his politeness like armor against her coolness and handing over the box. "Patrick will be back here to visit, I'm sure, over the next few days. He can't stay here," Taylor stressed the word _stay_, "but I can't see there being any problem with him visiting his friends here as much as he likes once he's settled with his foster carer."

"Thank you, Mr. Taylor," said Marie, now looking slightly less concerned. "You come back any time, Paddy. _Any_ time. You know you're always welcome here." Patrick nodded.

"Thanks Mrs B."

Taylor held out his hand. "Good to see you again, Mrs Barsocky. Please pass on my compliments to your family." With that he turned and escorted Patrick back to the Lincoln. Patrick, lost in thought, didn't look up as they left Stoney Ridge and headed into the center of Carson Springs.


	2. Chapter 2

Patrick Jane sat on a chair outside the Sheriff's office watching cops come and go while Taylor spoke with the Sheriff. A surprisingly short time later the Sheriff showed them both into the holding cell containing Alex Jane. Taylor entered first, then as Alex stood Patrick quickly stepped around to his dad and hugged him around the waist. Shock then surprise froze Alex for a few seconds before he put one arm around his son's shoulders, ruffling his hair with his other hand.

"Hey, Paddy, I thought you were a bit old for this kind of thing these days." Alex's voice betrayed his surprise but also more affection than Patrick had been expecting to hear. Patrick didn't want to let go just yet, surprised himself how comforting he found it to give the old man a hug. It was true, this wasn't something they did much any more. Hadn't done it much even when he was little. His Aunt Lily had always been more demonstrative in her affections than his dad.

"Special circumstances, Dad," he said without letting go.

"Yeah, you got that right." It sounded like his dad was smiling at him, also a rare occurrence these days. Taylor watched the proceedings surreptitiously while ostensibly fiddling with his briefcase. He was finally convinced that whatever else happened in their little family, Alex didn't beat his son. Patrick had wanted to see his dad rather than wanting to avoid him and when he stepped into the holding cell there hadn't been the slightest hesitation on the boy's part. He couldn't say the same about Alex. Taylor wondered about that for a moment before clearing his throat. The sound made Patrick ease his grip, standing back for a moment to look at his dad before taking the seat next to Taylor.

"Mr. Jane, the only update I have for you regarding your situation is that the Sheriff is going to transfer you to County at some point today. I'd expect it to happen sooner rather than later. Your initial appearance in Court will be the day after tomorrow. We'll learn what your bail will be but as we discussed earlier I don't expect it will be set at a level you can afford. Any time you spend in jail before sentencing will be deducted from your sentence so you could say it is beneficial for you to start jail time as early as possible, given what we discussed about the possible length of the sentence and the start of carnival season next year." Alex nodded at Taylor.

"Dad –" Patrick began. Taylor interrupted.

"Paddy here wanted to see you before I took him to Child Protective Services. I know you asked your friends the Barsockys to take care of him but the State of California insists its foster carers are fully vetted and certified."

"I have to go into foster care, Dad. They want to send me to _school_." To Taylor's astonishment Patrick's face was a picture of misery. The boy had seemed so calm when Taylor had explained things earlier. He must be even better at lying than Taylor had thought. No, that was unfair. Patrick was just being wary, keeping his feelings to himself was his way of dealing with everything that was happening. At least the boy was prepared to open up to his dad.

"Who will he be staying with?" Alex asked Taylor.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Jane, I have no idea as yet. We need to register him with Carson Springs CPS, then they'll check if someone can take him in today or if he'll need to spend some time in a group home. I'll keep you informed."

Alex turned to his son. "Listen, Paddy. You don't want to go into foster care, I don't want to go to jail. Looks like we both gotta suck it up. I'm planning to keep my head down and my nose clean. I advise you to do the same."

"Yes sir." Patrick sounded subdued and Taylor was a little shocked. It wasn't bad advice but it was cold, there didn't seem to be any warm fatherly affection from Alex, no comfort for Patrick in either the words or his tone. Alex gave his son a shrewd look.

"You can get through this, Paddy, you're not a kid any more. Just keep yourself to yourself, don't muddy the water where you drink, come and see me when you can. How often will that be, Mr. Taylor?"

"Saturdays, Mr. Jane. He can visit every Saturday so long as someone takes him." Alex and Patrick exchanged a look, Alex raising his eyebrows very slightly and Patrick nodding almost imperceptibly.

"While I'm inside I'll work on the new act, Paddy. Not much else to think of while I'm stuck there. You keep up with practicing what you know, don't worry about starting anything new – not now." Alex turned to Taylor. "Mr. Taylor? You're the _family_ lawyer, right? Paddy can call on you if there's anything he can't handle by himself?"

"Of course." Taylor had wanted to offer Patrick help but knew better than to try interfering. He was grateful that Alex had given him this opening. "Paddy, you don't have to go through the system alone. You'll have a foster carer and a social worker but let me give you my business card. Call me any time. About anything. Don't hesitate, I'm not being polite. Promise me you'll call." Patrick was looking at Taylor in astonishment. Taylor knew he was babbling but he didn't care. He liked the boy and felt a little sorry for him now he'd seen him together with the only family he had. Patrick turned to his dad.

"Can we afford that, Dad?"

Taylor smiled at that. "_Pro bono_ for juvenile clients, Paddy. That means you can afford it. And it's not just legal advice. I know how it is on the Midway, even during off-season, and I know how it's different in town. Call me if you have questions, difficulties fitting in, anything like that. We old people like to give advice to you young people. Feel free to indulge me in that, Paddy."

"Thank you, Mr. Taylor. If I need your help I'll call, I promise." Patrick's voice betrayed curiosity balanced with skepticism. He couldn't imagine why he might need Taylor's help. Taylor just hoped he would keep his promise to call.

"Um, Dad? I had an idea about the RV. Pete Barsocky's sister and her fiancé want to get married sooner rather than later, but they need somewhere to live. At breakfast this morning they were talking about some trailer that they can have but not until the start of the season next year. I think they might be happy to rent our RV for six months. I can re-pack our things into the storage trailer, they'll fit above the tent but I'd need to take out any cash before they could move in. I know where the housekeeping money is, but I don't know where you keep the rest."

"How much you thinking of asking?"

"I thought a grand for them to have it until the end of April. If you get out before then we could use their rent on a motel room, or rent storage and move ourselves into the storage trailer until the start of the season." Alex nodded thoughtfully.

"Ask them for twelve hundred, let them haggle you down to a grand."

"Sure thing, Dad," Patrick nodded. "I'll see if I can move everything out before this weekend."

"It would be a good idea for me to draw up a lease as you are out of the picture, Alex," Taylor interjected. "Paddy is too young to legally rent out your RV for you but I can do it on your behalf, if you'll let me. The proceeds would be held in trust so Paddy has access to the money if he needs it." Alex and Patrick exchanged another look. Taylor knew these sorts of arrangements didn't usually involve anything more than a handshake. "Don't worry, it's straight forward as far as paperwork is concerned and I'll do it at juvenile rates," he smiled briefly at Patrick. "If you explain its because of your age, Paddy, I'm sure Josh Barsocky's family will understand." Both Patrick and Alex still looked uncertain.

"It looks like we don't have much of a choice," Alex said eventually, looking from Taylor to Patrick and back.

"I guess my age is causing nothing but problems at the moment." Patrick looked miserable again.

"It's an advantage for you, Paddy, really it is. You still get the money from the rental but without having to take on the responsibility." Patrick's expression turned positively mutinous. "Look, both your dad and I know you are perfectly capable of looking after this sort of thing, Paddy, but with your dad in jail you need to do things strictly by the book. You really don't want to draw any unwanted official attention to yourself. The law says you can't rent out the RV until you're eighteen and even then it should be your name on the title, not your dad's. I'm sure you can think of plenty of ways to work around that situation but your social worker and foster carer will be half-expecting you to do something that could put you in Juvenile Hall. You don't want them calling the Sheriff." Taylor paused a moment. "It's still worthwhile renting out the RV my way, if that's what you want to do."

Alex had been nodding his agreement with Taylor. "Yeah, Paddy. You can persuade the Barsockys to sign a contract if anyone can."

"The Turners. Katy's fiancé is Mick Turner." Taylor nodded.

"Let me know if the Turners agree, it won't take any time to draft a rental agreement."

I still need to move the cash, Dad. If nothing else we'll need to pay Mr. Taylor here."

"If you don't have a bank account, Alex, I can hold your cash in my office safe." Taylor's face was carefully blank. Alex avoided Patrick's gaze.

"Two hundred under my mattress, a grand in every other location. Under the battery, under the air filter, in the bulkhead behind the glove box, in the driver's seat, behind the refrigerator, next to the skylight, inside the passenger door. Seven thousand two hundred, plus whatever's left of the housekeeping."

Patrick already knew about most of these hiding places, had counted how much cash his dad had hidden in them. This confirmed Patrick's suspicion that Alex had gambled away all of the ten thousand they had conned from the dying girl that summer. Except for his own hundred that he knew he could never spend. The old man hadn't spent it on high living and they sure as hell hadn't bought a better RV. He hadn't really expected anything else but having the loss confirmed like this was a blow. Patrick felt he had sold his soul that day, surely it should have been worth more to his dad than that? Alex clearly didn't think so, or more likely he just didn't think of it at all. Patrick didn't bother to hide the disappointment on his face.

"Just under seven hundred in housekeeping. You'll need to find some new hiding places, Dad," Patrick added, unsmiling.

Alex looked at his son then, gave him a smile. "Won't be too hard, finding somewhere you don't think to look." His eyes twinkled, challenging his son to this particular kind of hide and seek.

Patrick actually smiled back. The old bastard had lost ten grand, was facing maybe eighteen months in prison and could still turn on the charm when it suited him. Alex was indefatigable, a quality Patrick couldn't help reluctantly admiring. This was why he hadn't asked to go with Lily when she moved away. Alex had turned on his charm and had woven tales of a double act that would make it to Las Vegas sometime soon. Eleven-year-old Patrick, craving the attention he'd rarely had from his dad, had been utterly bewitched by it. That, plus he'd really wanted to learn the trade. Lily could teach him a lot of things but not about the act. Older, wiser, thirteen-year-old Patrick was now more aware of his dad's shortcomings but still wasn't immune to his manipulations. And he still wanted to learn the trade, wanted it more than ever. Las Vegas might be a pipe dream but the act, the skills anyway, were the key to a brighter future.

"Sure, Dad, you tell yourself that. I already found them all except the skylight. Where's that one?"

"Strip out the inner rim, there's a small gap at the front between the cladding on the inside and the roof." Alex was beaming at Patrick now.

"Good one." Patrick couldn't help it, he returned his dad's grin.

"I thought so."

Taylor hated to break up the conversation, this was the most warmth Alex had shown towards his son. However the cops outside had been joined by two officers in prison transport uniforms. It looked like they were ready to move Alex to the County Jail.

"I'm sorry, Paddy, I need to take you to Child Protective Services now. Your ride's here too, Mr. Jane." Patrick stood and gave his dad one last, brief hug. After they had left Alex checked his pockets. Paddy had slipped two unopened packets of Lucky Strike and a box of matches into one pocket and an unopened ounce of tobacco and some papers, soap and a couple of packets of gum into the other. Alex turned on the charm again as the prison transport deputies came for him. _Prison currency. Good work, Paddy, _he thought. _Knew you were a bit old for hugs. _

The drive to Child Protective Services was a short one. Patrick was silent until they were walking up the steps into the building.

"So… Dad's in court on Friday, what happens after that?"

"I have an appointment to see the assistant DA on Friday too, that's when I'll plea bargain your Dad's sentence. I'll be doing my best to get the ADA to agree the shortest sentence possible for your dad. If he gets six months, and he's spent a month in prison by the time he's given that sentence, he'll only have another five months to go. If he manages to stay out of trouble in prison he'll serve just half of his time, so he'd be out on parole and back with you after another two months, not five. You'll need to get onto the west coast circuit next year to satisfy your dad's parole officer but I think Pops Ruskin will be more put out at losing your act than Billy Ruskin will mind having it in his show."

"It's your job to argue for the shortest possible sentence?"

"Yes, Paddy."

Patrick paused for just a moment in the corridor, looking Taylor in the eye as he quietly asked, "Are you good at your job, Mr. Taylor?" His question and the steady gaze that accompanied it were the most disconcerting that Taylor had faced in a long time. He forced himself to maintain eye contact.

"Yes I am, Paddy. I've spent my whole career as a lawyer making these sorts of deals. I've known Cory Burbage, the ADA, since he was in diapers. I'm certain I can get a better deal for your dad than anyone else."

"Thank you, Mr. Taylor."

* * *

The Child Protective Services bureaucracy had taken hours and for some reason had even included a brief appearance before a judge. Patrick had found it even less interesting that he thought he would. He met his social worker, a tall, badly-dressed woman called Stella Lazczyck who asked him the same questions about his family as Taylor. He provided fewer details but essentially gave her the same story. After some discussion Taylor had agreed with Lazczyck that he should be fostered by some people called the Brodies who could take him on at short notice. William and Sally Brodie already had three other foster kids but had room for four and had been persuaded by Lazczyck that Patrick should be their fourth. Taylor assured him that this arrangement would be better than going into a group home, then sat next to him in the little courtroom and did the talking before the judge rubber-stamped everything.

Taylor had then left so it was Lazczyck who drove him to the Brodie's house mid-afternoon. Patrick was feeling a little apprehensive. What kind of people took on four waifs and strays like him? Why did they do it? As they drove Patrick took the opportunity to ask.

"Ms. Lazczyck, do foster carers get paid to look after other people's kids?"

"Yes they do, Patrick, though that isn't why they do it. Foster carers want to help the children in their care. However looking after a child is an expensive business, so the state of California does make small payments to foster carers to cover those expenses."

"The Brodies have three other foster kids already? I make four?"

"Yes Patrick."

"So… they must be getting four times as much money to look after us all."

"That's a very narrow way to look at it, Patrick." Lazczyck was parking up outside a large house in the suburbs.

"They just like helping lots of strange problem kids, is that what you're saying?" Patrick didn't hide the sarcasm in his voice. Lazczyck's pager went off while he was talking so she didn't reply, simply looked pointedly at him before getting out of the car. The house looked enormous to Patrick. Maybe these people didn't need money from the state of California. There were no fences along the front, just lawns and flower beds each side of the path that led to the door. To one side was a paved area in front of the double garage that was big enough to park their RV. Lazczyck handed him his suitcase as he got out of the car then walked with him up to the door. A woman had opened it and was waiting for them on the threshold.

"Come right in, Stella, Patrick." Sally Brodie had a bright smile and very dark blue eyes which rested on Patrick for a moment.

"Sally, I just got a page, may I use your phone?" Lazczyck asked.

"Sure, Stella, go ahead," Sally replied, waving her into a downstairs room.

"Here's Patrick's paperwork, you know the drill by now," Lazczyck added.

"Sure, I got things from here. I'll help Patrick unpack then he can meet the other kids." Even as Sally said this a little girl in pigtails was shyly peeping her head round a doorway at them. Patrick flashed her a grin and she vanished.

Sally led him upstairs, chattering. He paid little attention to her, giving it all instead to the house. He'd been inside houses before but never one quite as big as this. They could have fitted their RV in the hallway at the top of the stairs, too, the length of it anyway. There were doors opening off it on both sides. Sally pointed out the shared kids bathroom then opened the second door on the left onto a bedroom. Patrick followed her into a bland, bright room containing an unmade bed with a toy box at its foot, a set of drawers standing next to the bed which doubled as the night stand and a couple of posters on the wall. It seemed huge and impersonal after the cozy space of the RV.

"Here's your room, Patrick. This is the closet," she opened some doors on the back wall and started pulling things from a high shelf before using them to make up the bed with swift, confident movements. As she did so she called over her shoulder, "Would you like some help to unpack?" Patrick turned to her. He had already upended the meager contents of his suitcase into half of one drawer.

"Uh, sorry," he said, "I guess I don't have much stuff."

"You don't have to apologize, Patrick," Sally replied breezily. "We can go over to collect the rest of your clothes tomorrow." Sally finished making the bed and swept Patrick's empty suitcase up onto the top shelf in the closet as she said this. Sally's sing-song 'talking-to-kids' voice was grating on his nerves almost as much as had Lazczyck's bland non-answers to his questions. He knew she was trying to help him settle but the way she was behaving simply made him more edgy. He contemplated the empty closet, as big as a second room it seemed to him, a space wider than the length of his sleeping quarters in the RV and almost as deep that contained more rail space and shelves than he'd seen outside of a shop.

"I, er, don't have any more clothes, Mrs. Brodie." As her expression softened into pity he clarified quickly, "Well, I have more clothes but they're stage costumes really, from the carnival, they're all in storage for the winter back at Stoney Ridge. I don't use many regular clothes during a summer season and I usually buy clothes for the winter once we get here. We only just got back when… I mean, I haven't had the chance to go shopping yet."

"Maybe we can do that together tomorrow, Patrick, get to know one another better. Or you can go shopping on your own if you prefer," she added, seeing his expression.

"I usually do shop for clothes by myself, Mrs. Brodie. I know the shops that I like, the bus routes to get there, things like that. I think I'd prefer to go shopping alone, if that's okay?"

Sally thought for a moment, then said, "That's fine, Patrick, if you usually shop alone. I'm going to the mall tomorrow anyway, I'll take you. We can both do our own shopping then meet up for lunch afterwards. How does that sound?"

"I usually go to the Goodwill, Mrs. Brodie. You can get really good quality stuff sometimes if you know what to look for. My aunt's a seamstress, when she lived with us she taught me all about spotting good fabric and well-made clothes."

"You, um, don't have to do that while you're living here, Patrick. I'm happy to take you to the mall shops." Patrick didn't bother replying. For the price of a single outfit from the mall shops he could fill even this huge closet with things from the Goodwill store. He'd been advised to get a suit for his dad's court appearances, too, by the guys he had visited back in Stoney Ridge.

"I'd actually like to take the bus to the Goodwill in Sacramento, Mrs. Brodie, if you don't mind. It's only an hour away and the store there usually has better stuff." The city was a magnet for politicians and their hangers-on. It didn't just drive up house prices, the families of those sorts of people dressed more expensively than the average denizen of Carson Springs and those clothes generally made it to the Goodwill eventually. In fourth grade Patrick had turned up at school in clothes from Carson Springs Goodwill that someone recognized as their own old stuff and the memory of that particular humiliation still burned bright. After that Lily had taken to going shopping with him in Sacramento or making major alterations to anything they bought for him in Carson Springs. He'd carried on shopping in Sacramento in the last couple of years simply because he found better quality things there. Now he had school clothes to think about as well he was determined not to shop locally.

"I tell you what, Patrick. I haven't been shopping in Sacramento in a while. Why don't I give you a lift over there? We can shop separately but still meet up for lunch."

It sounded to Patrick as though Sally didn't trust him to go shopping by himself. He stifled a sigh. This woman was determined to treat him like some little kid. He hadn't realized how much he valued the freedom his dad allowed him until now. Would she really give him the chance to say no, to decide to take the bus alone instead? He didn't think so.

"Okay, Mrs. Brodie."

"You can call me 'Sally' if you like."

"Okay."

"Come and meet the other kids."

"Okay."

Lazczyck had finished her phone call when they got back downstairs. "Sally, I need to get over to Burton Creek. I'm really sorry to run out on you like this–"

"No, it's fine, Patrick's already all unpacked."

"Look, I'll register him with Carson Springs Middle School for you this week, then I'll be back here to see how you're both doing on Friday. He can start school next Monday if that's okay?" Patrick noted without surprise that Lazczyck didn't seem to be asking him if that was ok. "That'll mean you have him at home with you for a couple of days, give you both a little time to get to know each other." Lazczyck looked from one to the other.

"Sure, no problem. We're already planning a shopping trip together tomorrow. It'll be good to have a couple of days to settle in here, hey Patrick?" Sally didn't appear to expect any response from him either. "I'll see you Friday, Stella."

"Bye then, Sally. I'll see you Friday at the latest. Goodbye, Patrick."

"Bye, Ms. Lazczyck."

When he said this Patrick realized he hadn't said goodbye to Taylor, his lawyer had just no longer been around after the court hearing. He didn't like Lazczyck, felt she was too condescending and he wasn't sure Sally Brodie was any better. Taylor had been the only adult with whom he'd felt any kind of rapport today – hell, the only one who had treated him like a human being – and he hadn't even said goodbye. Shaking his head he followed Sally into a downstairs room where three other kids turned to stare at him.

"Patrick, this is Jenni Ng," Sally indicated the little girl with pigtails Patrick had spotted earlier. Jenni wordlessly raced over, gave Patrick a brief, tight hug, then sped back to the couch and the TV. Patrick couldn't help smiling, her brief gesture had made him feel more normal than anything else that had happened that day. He liked kids, these days it was his turn to be informal big brother and babysitter for the younger Carny kids, along with the other older kids. "This is Jenni's brother Paul," Sally continued. Paul was another little kid, a year or so older than Jenni. He grinned gappily at Patrick over the back of the couch, his adult teeth barely showing along his gums. Paul gave him a wave before turning back to the TV. "And this is Melissa Seacroft. She's in eighth grade at Carson Springs Middle. That's the school you'll be joining on Monday, Patrick, though I think with your September birthday you'll be going into seventh grade."

"It's Liss." The girl was curled up in an armchair with a magazine. She glanced disdainfully at Sally before looking back at Patrick, sizing him up, her hazel eyes narrowed in the kind of wary expression he'd last seen on his own face a few minutes before in the mirror in his new room. Patrick nodded at her.

"Hi Liss."

"Hi." She turned back to her magazine.

Sally filled the silence, "Well, I have to get started with dinner. Make yourself at home, Patrick." With that she was gone. Liss continued to read. Advertisements blared out from the TV. Patrick rounded the couch, sat in the space in the middle.

"What's on?" he asked the room rather than directing his question at anyone in particular. It was Jenni that replied.

"Scooby Doo!" She announced, just as the title music started on the TV. This was obviously a favorite, both the Ng kids settled down to watch. Patrick started singing along to the tune, getting the words mixed up or inventing his own, sillier version. Both the Ng kids were giggling with him by the time the episode began. Patrick didn't watch much TV these days so he laid it on thick, hiding behind a cushion when the monster appeared and shouting 'behind you!' when the gang were doing their run-away-and-hide routine. By the time the show ended the Ng kids were laughing uncontrollably and Patrick, grinning widely, rounded it all off by starting an impromptu cushion fight as the next set of advertisements started playing. Eventually Jenni and Paul performed a classic pincer movement, trapping Patrick in front of the couch and bombarding him with cushions until he surrendered. The next show was just starting – Spider-Man, another good tune to sing along to – and he expertly settled both the cushions and the little kids back on the couch as they all sang along. When their attention was fully on the TV Patrick turned quietly to leave the room but found the doorway blocked by Liss.

"How long you been in care?" She started without preamble.

"Uh, about four hours."

"New kid, huh?"

"I guess. How about you?"

"Been in care for two years, here for nearly a year. This is my fourth place. So where did that come from?" She gestured towards the younger kids, now both in thrall to the TV.

"I like kids. I do a lot of babysitting."

"You do not! You're too young." Patrick looked at her, surprised.

"It's true. Where I come from the kids all hang out together and the older kids look after the younger ones. They need to keep them away from–" Patrick only just stopped himself from saying 'getting hurt when the crews dismantle the carnival'. He continued, "from anywhere dangerous, keep them occupied when their parents are busy. It's fun. Surely you remember what fun is?" he added slyly. She snorted.

"Why do it here? Sally's not paying you to babysit."

"Little kids like it when I act silly. Jenni and Paul are my best friends now. Twenty minutes goofing off did that."

"Yeah, friends with stupid little kids. That's so lame." Patrick shrugged.

"People always underestimate little kids. You'd be surprised how helpful they can be when they want." Lookouts, spies, messengers, distractions and creators of diversions… Reading Oliver Twist and Sherlock Holmes stories had been a revelation which he'd put to good use. He didn't run the gang back at the carnival along Victorian lines, it was much more fun than that, but he did run the gang.

He hadn't set out to, there had been no intentional coup. Patrick had simply been more fun than the other older kids and had discovered the reward for him was he could command the younger kids' loyalty – and obedience. Up to a point. It was a fine balance, good practice. It meant he was usually one of the first to learn about anything that happened on the showgrounds, kids being naturally observant and naturally happy to talk to someone who wanted to listen to them. He didn't exploit them – he genuinely liked them – but he didn't resist making use of them when he needed help with something slightly shady. Their most recent exploit, last week, had been a raid on an orchard that was near the Fresno showground, their last stop before winter quarters. Afterwards he'd set up a table outside then every kid had made first pastry then an apple pie to take back to their family trailer for baking. He was cultivating Danny as his natural successor, still too young to take over straight away but he'd be in charge in a few years when Patrick moved on. There was less of a need for babysitting over winter anyway with the younger kids in school, there wouldn't be a problem picking up the reins again next season. Or maybe the one after that, if his dad did get eighteen months.

He grinned at the disbelieving scowl that Liss shot at him but didn't elaborate. "So what happens now?"

"You get to watch more lame cartoon shows until dinner, unless you can think of something better to do?" Patrick wasn't going to ask if she could think of something. Her whole demeanor suggested Liss was resentful of his presence in the Brodie's household and quite willing to cause trouble for him if he let her.

"This is all new to me. I was thinking of exploring, looking round the house and the yard." Patrick squeezed past to leave the room and Liss followed. "I don't remember inviting you along," he added.

"But I'm coming anyway," she replied. He shrugged, inwardly triumphant. He had wanted a guide, she would have refused if he'd asked but now he had what he wanted. Round one to him. Liss might have more experience of foster care but Patrick had played this game a thousand times. Planting an idea in her mind, making her think it was her own, this was even more fun than winning over the affection of the Ng kids. Shame she was such a pain in the ass but he could probably do something about that too, in time.


	3. Chapter 3

Patrick Jane followed the sounds of cooking to the kitchen at the back of the house. It looked like they would be having spaghetti bolognaise for dinner. Sally was tipping chopped onions into a large frying pan and the ground beef and other ingredients were sitting on the counter top. She looked up as the kitchen door opened and Patrick gave her a warm smile.

"Hi Mrs. Brodie. I was wondering if you needed any help with dinner?"

"Oh, Patrick! Thank you for offering but no, you don't have to help."

"Then is it okay if I explore a little? This is all new to me and I'd love to look around."

Sally looked as though she was rather surprised to be asked. "Of course, Patrick. Please don't make a mess, or go into any of the sheds in the yard because we keep gardening tools and chemicals in them. Otherwise feel free to explore wherever you like. I'm sure Melissa would love to show you around. Dinner will be about an hour but I'll call you when it's ready."

"Liss." The girl growled behind him.

"Thank you, Mrs. Brodie." Patrick's smiled at her one last time and headed back out of the door. Liss followed him.

"Thank you, Mrs Brodie. Can I help you, Mrs. Brodie? Would you like me to lick your boots, Mrs. Brodie?" As soon as they were out of earshot Liss started, her voice dripping with venom.

"Did you see how she moved when she was cooking?" Patrick began conversationally. He saw a confused expression flit across Liss's face and smiled. "She was never going to let me help her cook dinner tonight. I just got here and it would make her feel weird having a stranger intruding into her domain, her kitchen is where she feels most secure. Now she thinks I'm polite and want to be helpful rather than just another foster kid with a bad attitude," Patrick's smile became pointed for a moment. "I bet most kids do explore when they first come here but it looked like she's never had a kid ask permission before. Now I don't just get to look round the house and the yard, she told me there are sheds out there with all kinds of stuff in them. And she gave me permission to look in every closet and drawer in the house so long as I don't make a mess," Patrick added, doing just that to the long low cupboard in the hallway. Mostly this seemed to be full of a needlewoman's equipment and supplies. He cast an interested eye over the contents of the sewing basket. "I bet she always got mad when she found you going through her stuff, didn't she Liss?"

"Who'd want to go through her stupid stuff anyway?" Liss retorted. Patrick just grinned.

"Thought so," he said as he sauntered off towards the room Lazczyck had used to make her phone call. It seemed little-used, with bookshelves all around and a desk at one end. The desk drawer was locked so Patrick started searching through the desk tidy for the key. Liss was fuming as she watched him pick up a pair of little keys and open the drawer.

"So you were just fooling with her? Jerking her chain?" Her hostility didn't stop her coming round to see what Patrick had unearthed: stationery, pens, a small locked cashbox. He re-locked the drawer.

"I _can_ cook. I would have helped if she said yes. Now I don't have to," Patrick's expression was casually smug as he browsed the bookshelves. Someone really liked Agatha Christie but mostly they were American novels. Several well-thumbed bibles told Patrick the Brodies were probably Christians but not Catholic, no crucifixes on the walls. A large section of reference books. He glanced at Liss, gratified to see that his attitude was getting to her. "We won't have to set the table either, she'll get Jenni and Paul to do that because she thinks we're _bonding,_" his tone was heavy with sarcasm, "and she thinks you're being kind showing me around, so – you're welcome." Patrick gave a little half-bow but kept his eye on Liss and so was able to catch her wrist when, provoked beyond endurance, she tried inexpertly to slap him. He held it for just a moment as she struggled, then released it and stepped back out of her way.

"I am not showing you around," she hissed.

"I guess I get to explore by myself, then, after all," he replied. Liss hesitated, torn between hostility and curiosity. Patrick was better at exploring than she was, she had never managed to open the desk drawer.

"Okay, follow me." Liss set off out of the room without another word. Patrick grinned at her back and followed.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot, Liss," he said mildly, knowing he was pouring gas on the flames of her anger not water. "I'm not looking for trouble. There's no need for us to fight. Why're you so angry with me?"

They headed into another downstairs room. "This is the Brodie's TV room, we don't use the kids' room in the evenings. And I'm not angry, you're annoying." The TV and couches were newer, there were pictures in frames and decorative ornaments dotted about – and absolutely no toys.

"Yeah, a lot of people say that about me," Patrick replied, unconcerned. The last downstairs room was a dining room with a huge table. A dresser against one wall displayed some fancy-looking blue and white china plates. Patrick opened the cupboard doors underneath: more fancy china dinnerware was stored inside. "Do the Brodies have people over a lot?"

"They have dinner parties a few times a month. I never went to one," Liss continued. "They're boring, just adults sitting around on their asses talking." Patrick had never been to a dinner party either but he never found it boring when adults sat around talking. He didn't bother responding, instead he simply finished looking round and headed out.

"Small bathroom there under the stairs," Liss waved towards it as she moved towards the stairs. Patrick surprised her by heading to the front door.

"You don't want to explore everyone's rooms, or the attic?" she used such an exaggerated tone Patrick was sure she knew, as he suspected, that Sally's permission didn't extend to everyone's bedrooms. He shook his head.

"Right now I want to explore the sheds."

* * *

They threaded their way out of the front door and around the house. The yard at the back had a big paved area next to the house then grass and flowerbeds further out, with a path leading out of sight behind some larger shrubs. They stopped in front of the first shed and Patrick peered in the window. Liss glanced in, bored.

"This one's just got the mower and stuff like that."

"It's Mr. Brodie's shed, not his wife's. Not just the mower, it's also the place Brodie stores the leftover stuff from his projects," Patrick sounded pleased. "See, those paint cans on the shelves over there, off cuts of wood in that box, all kinds of stuff. He's careful to hang onto anything he might find useful in another project. Just the materials though, no tools here, I guess he'd keep them in the garage. Interesting."

"What's so interesting?"

"Brodie's not a hoarder, you can tell that from the house, but he keeps leftover materials that have the potential for use in another project so I guess he grew up poor, probably right here in Carson Springs because why else would people as rich as the Brodies still live here? He stores them in a way that means he knows where everything is, so he's tidy and methodical. He's smart because he doesn't keep everything that's left over, just the useful stuff. I bet people from all over the neighborhood come to Mr. Brodie when they have a project and he's happy to give stuff away as well as advice on how to go about what they want to do. He probably gives up his own free time to help out too. I bet this all drives Mrs. Brodie crazy sometimes, she was never as poor as him so she can't see why he wants to keep all this junk and she couldn't bear to share a single shed if it had all this stuff in it. She gets just a little bit jealous, too, when he spends a lot of time helping someone out."

"It's just stuff in a shed."

"You can learn a lot about a person by looking at their stuff. What's in the next shed?"

"More gardening stuff."

"Oh, this is Mrs. Brodie's shed. It's used more often. She's a tidy person but she needs more shelves, see that bunch of things on the floor near the door? She keeps it together in that caddy but doesn't have anywhere else to put it when she locks the shed. She feels lonely, that's one reason she gardens although she does like growing things. Working in her garden makes her feel creative. Not as interesting as Brodie's shed."

"Why not?"

"Everything in here's about one thing. There's a mix of stuff in Brodie's shed."

"How do you know she feels lonely?"

Patrick rolled his eyes and ignored her question. "I guess the last shed is garden toys for the kids? Yeah…" Patrick spent some time with his nose up against the window of the last shed, shielding his eyes from reflections. "I think there's an old bicycle at the back of this shed. See, behind that blue plastic thing at the back. That flash of red which looks a bit like a pipe? It isn't a baseball bat, no taper. Do you think it could be part of a bicycle frame?"

In spite of herself Liss peered into the shed. She had even been inside this one but had never noticed a bicycle. Someone had put things in order at one time but all the foster kids had dug out whatever they used most then simply thrown it all back into the shed afterwards. There _was_ more order towards the back. Liss tilted her head to see what he was talking about.

"Yeah, maybe. How come you know all this stuff about the Brodies? Did your social worker tell you about them? Mine just said their children were grown up and Sally was a stay at home mom. I mean, used to be. I guess she still is, she doesn't work anyway."

"Oh, no, Lazczyck didn't say anything. I'm psychic. I'm a gypsy, we're born with psychic powers." Patrick sounded very matter-of-fact about it. He continued, more enthusiastic, "I'd like the use of a bicycle. You can get from one side of Carson Springs to the other in half an hour on a bike. Mr. Taylor thought they'd let me go visit my friends in Stoney Ridge, that would be much easier if I had a bike."

"You're a gypsy?" Liss sounded skeptical. "Yeah, right."

"Whether you believe or not doesn't change the facts, Liss. I never slept in a house before. I know all about the Brodies because I'm psychic. I could read your thoughts if I wanted to." He turned his spookiest knowing look on her.

"No way. Psychics aren't real. If you're from Stoney Ridge then you just live in a trailer park, that doesn't make you a gypsy."

"No, traveling round the country all my life, having gypsy parents, that makes me a gypsy."

"Are you a Carny kid? I know they stay in Stoney Ridge every winter." It was Patrick's turn to feel annoyed.

"And I know you're an _orphan_." Patrick rounded on her. "Both your parents are dead. You really want a new family but people who adopt want babies, not teenagers like you, so you're secretly afraid that'll never happen. That's why you're so angry all the time. You like Mrs. Brodie a lot, you'd like her to be your new mom but you're scared she'll reject you if you mentioned it and you'll have to move again. That's why you're acting out. Y'know, that's what they call a self-fulfilling prophesy, Liss." He had subtly backed away from her as he said this in expectation that she'd try to hit him again. Instead to his astonishment Liss burst into tears. This wasn't quiet weeping but howling sobs that shook her whole body, her face twisted in misery. After a moment she sank to the ground, hugging her knees, not caring about where she was or who saw her in this state.

Patrick immediately felt bad. In spite of appearances he had felt the full force of her verbal attacks when she started needling him and she'd been way too close for comfort in those last guesses about the carnival so he'd wanted to make her back off. He now realized he'd gone way too far, throwing her miserable life back in her face like that. No-one chose to be orphaned. After two years of course she longed for a new family.

"Hey, I'm sorry. Shhh, don't cry, Liss. Please. I'm sorry I said those things. I'm sorry about your parents." He sat beside her and to his surprise Liss turned and buried her face in his shoulder, still sobbing uncontrollably. He realized uncomfortably that she was so upset she didn't even care that the shoulder she was crying on belonged to the guy who had just made her cry, that any shoulder was better than crying alone. The idea that she must have done plenty of crying alone during the last two years in four different foster homes left Patrick feeling wretched about what he'd said. He patted her back gently, tried to murmur soothingly for what seemed a long time while her crying slowly became quieter, eventually stopped.

"Liss? Can we start over? I mean," he hesitated, then thought – what the hell, all his friends were on the other side of town, he needed as many allies as he could get in this place. Liss sure as hell could do with someone here too. "I guess we're kinda foster brother and sister now, huh? Brothers and sisters fight and upset each other but they get along and look out for each other as well, right? I'm really sorry about – about what I said. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. It was mean. Can you forgive me? Can't we be on the same side? It's not like either of us have got anyone else around here."

Liss eventually mumbled something that sounded like 'okay' into his shoulder, but didn't move.

"You really an orphan?" Patrick asked. She lifted her face up then, nodded miserably at him. She was a mess, black eye make-up all over her face, eyes red with tears, face all blotchy. He looked down at his t-shirt, the shoulder was covered in black smudges as well as being very wet. "What happened?"

"I was waiting to be collected after softball practice and no-one showed. Both mom and dad were coming to pick me up, which meant they were both in the car when the truck hit it. Mom died straight away, dad lived for four days in the hospital but he never woke up. I've got a grandma but she lives in a retirement home, she can't look after me. Dad's sister lives in Alaska or somewhere, but she didn't want to take me." Liss almost whispered these last words then took a deep breath. "What about you?"

Patrick struggled against his ingrained inclination not to tell anything to anyone. "Mom died when I was born. Dad just got arrested and our lawyer thinks he might get eighteen months. I don't have anyone else." Yeah, no need to talk about Lily and especially his grandfather. They weren't in the picture anyway.

Liss looked like she was thinking about something else. "You really a gypsy?"

Patrick shrugged. "Yeah. Right back to my great-grandfather who came over from Ireland. Mom's family were gypsies too but I don't know much about them, dad never kept in touch after I was born. You were right, we do travel with the carnival, we're the gypsy fortune tellers. Well, mostly we do a psychic show, you earn more when you have an audience rather than one-to-one fortune telling."

"I still don't believe in psychics." There was some aggression back in her tone. "Psychics told my mom she would have another baby, get a better job and move to a bigger house just before – before the accident." Patrick actually liked hearing Liss sounding a little more like her former self.

"You don't have to believe, Liss. People are allowed to have different beliefs, that's in the Constitution, it's the law. It doesn't mean they can't get along." There was more silence as Liss considered this.

"I never had a brother. Do we need to cut our thumbs and rub them together, like blood brothers, like they do in films?"

"Ew, no!" Patrick recoiled for an instant. "We already got papers in the real world saying we're foster brother and sister. I went before a _judge_. You did too, right? Doesn't get more official than that. Even adults have to pay attention to something like that." Liss looked more relieved than disappointed.

"Does that mean Jenni and Paul are our sister and brother, too?"

"Yes," Patrick decided. "They do have each other but little kids need older kids to watch their backs sometimes. Who else've they got?"

The thoughtful silence that followed was interrupted by Sally calling them to dinner. Patrick quickly stood, then held out his hands to help pull Liss up. When she was upright he didn't let go, instead he looked her in the eye and spoke.

"Liss," he said quietly, "if you still want to get rid of me it's in your hands now." Patrick squeezed her hands lightly for emphasis as he said this before he let them go. "I'm completely at your mercy," he added as he and gently turned her to face the shed. He was slightly shorter than Liss but carefully watched her reflection in the window from over her shoulder as he talked. She still looked terrible, black streaks and smudges under her eyes where she'd rubbed her face on his shoulder. "All you have to do is go in to dinner looking like this and tell Mrs. Brodie I made you cry. I can't deny it, look at me." He gestured to his stained t-shirt. "I'd be out of here faster than you could say 'Jackrabbit'. You can make it happen just like that, if you want. You wouldn't even be lying. I'd most likely get sent to Juvenile Hall. Gypsy boys who make town girls cry aren't given second chances, Liss. My dad's already in jail." He watched her eyes widen in shock as she took in what he had just said.

"I really am very sorry that I said those mean things," Patrick continued, "This is your big chance for revenge if you want it. Am I really forgiven?" He held up a Kleenex as he asked this. To his relief Liss took it, looking a little sickened at the thought of exercising the power he had handed over to her. He had taken a risk talking to her like this but he thought he'd minimized it pretty well. Exaggerating by talking about Juvie actually made it less likely that she would want to tell tales, fearing the too-serious consequences of her actions. It was more likely that she would trust him in future, given the enormous trust he was apparently showing her now. And he really _was_ very sorry for what he said, he told himself. Turning the situation to his advantage, getting her to keep quiet, well, everyone would do that if they could. If he was going to get into trouble at least it should be for a good reason, not merely as a result of circumstances that somehow spiraled out of control.

"What about you?" Liss asked as she quickly cleaned up her face as best she could.

"When you're done here we'll both go around to the front and call out that we're going to wash up. You head into the downstairs bathroom, see if you need to wash your face, I'll head upstairs and get changed. I'll see if this stuff will wash out of my t-shirt in the bathroom sink later."

* * *

Jenni and Paul had set the table and had put Patrick between them, as Jenni proudly explained when Patrick came in. He was the last to sit down, the food was already on the table and he was about to reach for some bread when Will cut in.

"Patrick, we say grace before we eat. Hands together, eyes closed." Patrick sat still, curiously watching as everyone else closed their eyes and listened to Will's brief litany of thanks. As soon as he had finished all eyes snapped open and Sally started dishing up. This was more familiar territory.

Jenni, any shyness with Patrick long forgotten, was a real chatterbox, not really caring how much actual attention her audience was paying as she launched into a long story involving the characters from Scooby Doo. Paul was still shy, and the reason why became obvious to Patrick over dinner: his current lack of front teeth made him lisp and he was self-conscious about it. Sally hadn't realized that this was the reason he'd been quiet for the last week or so and kept trying to get him to talk. After her second attempt Patrick decided a distraction was called for.

Patrick waited until Sally started discussing something with Will then nudged Paul and Jenni. Liss noticed and started watching too. He dangled the very end of a piece of spaghetti in his mouth, sucked it off his fork then abruptly stopped, the dangling end wiggling like a worm for a moment before he sucked again. The sauce spattered all across his face before the flailing end of the spaghetti finally disappeared. He winked at Paul, who was silently giggling, lifted another piece of spaghetti high over his face and throwing his head back to dangle this new end into his mouth for a repeat performance. Paul and Jenni both instantly tried to do the same, sucking up their spaghetti and creating a terrific mess. Within seconds their end of the table erupted in loud giggles, all their faces now liberally spattered with sauce. Liss hadn't joined in but looked as though she was trying very hard not to laugh at their antics. Will and Sally looked over and Patrick froze theatrically, the end of spaghetti still dangling from his mouth, the most exaggerated caught-in-the-act expression clearly visible beneath the liberal daubs of sauce. He waited a beat then sucked in the last bit of spaghetti with a small slurp, his expression unchanged. Even Sally and Will joined in the laughter.

* * *

Sally heard the sounds of washing-up when she came down the next morning to prepare breakfast and lunch bags for the children. Patrick was just finishing up. It looked like he had cooked something, he had a cloth in his hand and was drying the frying pan.

"Good morning Patrick! You're up early, is everything okay?" Patrick startled, no theatrics now, he looked at her as if he truly believed he had been caught in the act while doing something he shouldn't.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Brodie, I didn't mean to do anything wrong."

"It's okay, Patrick, you're not in trouble." Sally looked at him curiously. "You cook yourself breakfast every day?"

"Mr. Brodie was here the whole time getting ready to go to work, I wasn't alone in your kitchen until he left just now, Mrs. Brodie."

"You haven't done anything wrong, Patrick, I'm just surprised. Not too many thirteen-year-old boys want to cook their own breakfast. Do you like to cook?"

"So you're not angry with me?" She found his attitude and question a little disconcerting. She _had_ been annoyed to hear someone washing up in her kitchen. William never did it right, often putting things back in the wrong cupboards, still slightly dirty or wet, so she would not only have to hunt next time she needed them but also wash them again before she could use them. Her surprise at seeing Patrick at her sink hadn't quite erased the feeling – though now she looked closer he had in fact done an excellent job of cleaning up.

"No, Patrick, not angry. If you clean up after yourself like that you can cook breakfast every morning if you want to."

Patrick wondered why Sally would lie to him about being angry. It had been so clearly written on her face even though she continued to deny it. His dad never bothered to pretend he wasn't angry. Patrick mused that it might be nice if he would pretend sometimes, his dad was better at pretending than Sally.

"I'd like that, Mrs. Brodie, I enjoy having eggs for breakfast. I made them for Mr. Brodie too this morning. He said he usually just has a cup of coffee but I never made coffee before, so I asked if I could do eggs, toast and a pot of tea for both of us instead. He said it was okay for me to use the kitchen and he seemed to like my eggs, said they were nearly as good as yours. I'd like you to show me how you cook eggs one morning, Mrs. Brodie."

"I can cook eggs for your breakfast every morning, Patrick, if that's what you want." Sally looked puzzled.

"Just once would be okay."

"You want to see how I cook eggs, is that it?"

"Yes ma'am. My dad says the best way to improve is to practice but my aunt says the best way to improve is to learn from someone who's better at something than you are. I'd like to keep cooking my own breakfast, if that's okay, to keep practicing, but I would like you to show me how you make eggs too."

"Do you like to cook?" Sally asked again.

"I guess. I do cook if there's any cooking to be done back home, dad can only cook barbecue. My aunt taught me the basics when I was younger, said everyone should at least be able to follow a recipe. She's a good cook. Good at everything she puts her mind to, pretty much."

"She sounds like a very wise person. Were you living with your aunt before you came here?"

"Hmm?" Patrick sounded as though he hadn't been listening then changed the subject. "Mr. Brodie went to work very early, is it like that every morning?"

He was putting the dry things away now, confidently opening cupboards and putting everything back in its proper place as though he had been cooking in Sally's kitchen all his life. It made Sally feel a little uncomfortable. This new boy looked about ten but behaved like a thirty-five year old and it was jarring. She was glad when he finished up and moved to sit at the table. Sally finally entered her own kitchen and started making herself coffee.

"Yes, at the moment. He works for a big accountancy firm in Sacramento and he's very busy right now. He may even need to spend a few days in LA for work next week." Patrick added that nugget of information to everything he was piecing together about Brodie. He probably did grow up in Carson Springs, Patrick couldn't think of another reason they'd live here if he didn't work here. He watched Sally closely as he sat thinking. Sally was getting more used to Patrick's manner but still found his unwavering gaze unsettling. She was wondering whether to say anything when he spoke first.

"I hope you don't mind me watching how to make coffee, Mrs. Brodie. Like I said, I never made it before."

"No, it's okay, Patrick," Sally lied, then felt the urge to explain herself. "I mean, it always feels a little odd when someone watches you closely, doesn't it? But it's okay. See, you put the filter paper in the funnel here, then one scoop of coffee per mug or add three to four for a full pot. Fill the water to the right line for the number of cups. Do you see the scale here? It's wrong for our mugs, one mug is about two cups on this scale. Don't switch it on until you pour the water in here," she indicated with her free hand before pouring, "or the heat can crack the glass of the jug. Then flick the switch and leave it to brew."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare, but it's kinda hard to watch how to do something without staring," Patrick explained simply. "How can you tell when it's finished?"

"The noise stops and the jug at the bottom is full of coffee, but there's a valve at the top too, it can hold back any drips long enough for you to pour a cup if it hasn't quite finished." Patrick's words and explaining the simple process to him had calmed Sally. Yes of course learning how to make coffee would involve watching her do it. It was just the intensity of his gaze that had rattled her. She pitied his teachers on Monday, if he was like this at school they wouldn't know what hit them. She looked up in time to catch his delighted smile, he seemed so pleased to have learnt this simple task that she found herself returning a smile of her own. Patrick nodded towards the machine.

"That looks pretty easy, thanks, Mrs. Brodie. Would it be okay for me to make Mr. Brodie coffee with his eggs tomorrow?"

"Of course, Patrick. If you make a full pot I can have some when I come down. Press both those switches when you turn it on to keep the hotplate switched on."

"Mrs. Brodie, I saw that old bike at the back of the toy shed yesterday. Mr. Brodie said I could use his tools – not the power tools, but his spanners and things – to fix it up so long as you said it was okay. I'd like to have the use of a bike while I'm staying here. It's much better than taking a bus all the time."

"Oh! No-one has ridden that in years. It might not be very safe..."

"Well, I know I'd have to replace some parts like the brakes. If there's damage to the frame I have a friend in Stoney Ridge who's a good welder, he'd be able to make repairs for me for free. If it needs it. To make it safe." Sally wondered if he might be teasing her a little but could see only pleading and enthusiasm in Patrick's face.

"Well, I don't know..."

"Please, Mrs. Brodie? It would help me to settle in here if I had a project like that."

"Okay. So long as Will checks it over before you ride it then okay. You can fix up that bike then use it afterwards while you're here." Patrick's delighted smile was dazzling. Sally finished her coffee, put the dirty cup in the sink and started getting boxes of cereal out of the cupboard. When she turned back around Patrick was gone but the table was set for three. Sally shook her head. The boy was just being polite and helpful, why did she find him so weird and unsettling?

Patrick had taken Mrs. Brodie's keys from the hook in the kitchen but was trying to pick the lock on the shed door anyway, just for practice, using the old set of picks that Danny Ruskin had given him for his birthday. He was about to give up and use the key when it clicked open. Patrick felt very pleased with himself. He had picked every lock in Danny's little collection – eventually – but this was the first time he'd done it for real, even if he hadn't strictly needed to. Danny could have done it faster but Danny was planning on becoming the youngest-ever escape artist. Patrick was just learning out of curiosity.

He emptied half the shed before he could get a proper look at the bike, which turned out to be a racing style bicycle in a deep red color. The frame and wheels seemed sound, the tires and hand grips rotten, he would need to replace the brakes and all the cables too. He moved the blue thing – some kind of slide for toddlers – then managed to pull the bike out. Just half an hour later he was locking the door on the shed with an expression of satisfaction.

Patrick had just carried the bicycle into the garage when he heard Sally calling his name. He stuck his head around the back door, quietly replacing her keys on the hook before he spoke.

"What is it, Mrs. Brodie?"

"Oh, there you are! Jenni and Paul missed you at breakfast. They just caught the school bus. I thought we could leave early if we're driving over to Sacramento this morning. You go put on your jacket and we can set off in about five minutes, after I finish up here."

"How does Liss get to school?"

"Her friend's mom picks her up from the bus stop on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the rest of the week she catches the school bus with Jenni and Paul. Her friend Julia's stop is three before ours."

"Does that mean I'll be taking the bus to school too?"

"Oh yes, Patrick, I believe there's spaces on it every morning. I guess I could ask Brenda if she'd give you a lift too... "

"No, no need. The bus is fine. I used to get the school bus to Stoney Ridge Elementary. Uh, can we stop by Stoney Ridge? I don't have any money with me–"

"Oh Patrick, you don't have to worry about that!" The look of bewilderment on Sally's face was an echo of the one on his own. "Foster children don't have to pay for their own clothes. Will and I get money to cover your living expenses. I'll give you some money when we get there, you can give me the receipts for whatever you buy and any change that's left over when you're done shopping. In fact," she added as she picked up her purse, "we budget a small allowance for children in our care. As you're thirteen..." Sally held up some small bills with a flourish, "you get thirteen dollars. You can have this now, in case you want to spend it in Sacramento. The rule about your allowance is that you can spend it any way you like. You don't have to ask permission and you can choose to save it up if you want to buy something more expensive."

Patrick, stunned, finally managed to say "Thank you, Mrs. Brodie," but he made no move. Sally put the cash into his unresisting hand with an encouraging nod and smile, which unfroze him. "Uh, I'll go get my jacket."

Upstairs, Patrick still didn't know what to think. He'd never had an allowance. He knew each day's takings because he helped his dad count them, they only needed an audience of four for a single show to get more than thirteen dollars. His dad was scrupulous about the first money they earned each week going into housekeeping, a hangover from when Lily was still around, which was a sizable amount of money and for which Patrick was largely responsible these days. Most weeks they earned more, which in practice meant his dad earned more. When Lily had been around he knew there had been an arrangement whereby each shared their earnings with the other. It was the first thing mentioned whenever Lily or his dad felt the need to escalate an argument into a full-blown screaming match. Patrick didn't know the details. For the last two years his dad had kept control of all the cash except the housekeeping and he'd even raided that once or twice. Patrick had learnt to ask for money whenever his dad had been lucky at cards rather than when he wanted to buy something but at least the old man wasn't cheap. Not thirteen dollars cheap, anyway. He had nearly two hundred dollars of his own in a kid's Bank of America account that Lily had helped him open before she left – and the hundred dollar bill he would never spend. With his dad in jail nearly eight grand was his responsibility now, which he would be using to cover repairs and maintenance, new show costumes and other winter expenses, including paying Taylor. He had had the idea to make another grand from renting out the RV. Now it seemed he also had an allowance. Regular small change, anyway. No way was he going to turn down free money, but… He shook his head as he slipped his jacket on.

There was still twelve dollars in his jacket pocket, left over from his brief visits to the other Carnies yesterday and a lifetime ago. They had advised that his dad get a suit for his court appearances. Maybe his allowance would be useful for something, after all. Twenty-five should get a sober-looking suit for his dad from Sacramento Goodwill.


	4. Chapter 4

Patrick spotted the vest as soon as he walked into the Sacramento Goodwill and it called to his very soul. Bottle-green leather at the front, supple and evenly-grained with a heavy satin fabric, beautifully color matched, at the back. It was a little oversized even when he adjusted it as small as possible but oversized was a fashion thing at the moment so it didn't look wrong. In fact he thought it looked very stylish when he tried it on over his t-shirt. He'd seen bikers wearing black leather vests but this wasn't remotely the same. Instead it reminded him of an ancient photo he'd seen in a museum in Kansas City. There had been an exhibit about building the railroad to the Pacific coast a hundred years ago, with a photo of one of the work gangs enlarged and placed center stage. They were all wearing three piece suits, of a style very like Taylor's, only these guys were standing in the middle of a wilderness rather than a courtroom and were obviously engaged in heavy labor not legal work, leaning casually on their picks and shovels while the photographer took their picture. Most of them had shed their jackets but not their vests, their only other concessions to the hard work they were doing being rolled up sleeves and undone buttons on their collarless shirts.

Patrick searched the store and found a collarless shirt. It was hopelessly big but with the neck open and the sleeves rolled up it came close to the look he remembered. Yes, he liked that look even more on himself, it was distinctive – and yes, stylish – without being ostentatious or so tied to the latest fashions it would be out-of-date any time soon. He put the shirt back but kept the vest, three pairs of jeans, a handful of t-shirts, two sweaters and a heavy jacket that looked as though it had never been worn, perfect for the coming winter. Suddenly Patrick had a brainwave. He picked up a grey and white striped shirt that was only slightly big on him and examined it closely at the collar. He was sure he could re-style it using the stuff from Sally's sideboard. He hadn't done any sewing since Lily left – apart from reattaching buttons – but he felt pretty confident it wouldn't take too much doing. If it didn't work he would think of something else. Picking out four other shirts he cast an eye over his choices. Yeah, that would do for now.

Feeling pleased with his shopping trip so far he headed over to check out the men's suits. There was a sizable collection at this Goodwill, though most were way too big for his dad. He finally settled on a mid-grey subtly pinstriped two-piece in a beautiful light wool fabric that oozed quality. There wouldn't be time to get it dry cleaned before tomorrow but it wasn't stained and it didn't stink. Although worn nearly to shininess at the seat and slightly too big for his dad at least the trousers didn't need turning up. It would have to do.

He picked up a white shirt in his dad's size, a plain blue tie that was only a bit too wide to be currently fashionable and a narrow belt. His dad's stuff added up to more than twenty-five dollars so he spent a little time chatting with the manager. He explained himself and looked earnest, thinking all the time how Lily would say you spin a stronger thread with truth than lies. The prison tatoos he'd glimpsed on the guy weren't recent but the man was clearly inclined to be sympathetic to both Patrick's plight and his dad's. The manager finally marked the suit down enough so he could buy it all without having to use Sally's money. He carefully put through his dad's clothes separately so he could give Sally her receipt and full change. He didn't want her to think he was stealing some of her money to buy clothes for his dad.

If Patrick was pleased with his purchases Sally was astonished when they met up at lunchtime. She showed him her new skirt and cardigan, then didn't even have to ask to see what he had bought. He proudly pulled each item out with a flourish and happily chatted with her between bites of his burger and fries, talking about the picture in the museum in Kansas and pointing out what attracted him to that particular item over others that he had also been considering. Sally realized this was the most open and animated that she'd seen him. She had always considered Goodwill to be the place to take donations, not a place she'd ever buy anything – but the suit Patrick had bought for his dad seemed better quality fabric than any of Will's. She wasn't sure about the green leather vest but approved of all his other purchases. His colored shirts certainly would look good whether or not he also wore the vest. Patrick had a good eye for color as well as quality.

"Patrick, did you say your aunt was a seamstress? She taught you about fabrics and colors and stitching? You found some great clothes."

"Yes ma'am."

Sally realized with some surprise that this was the first time a direct question had received a direct answer from Patrick, even if it was short.

"The same aunt who's a good cook?"

"Yes ma'am."

"But you don't live with her any more?"

"No."

"Don't you want to chat about your family, Patrick?" He looked as though he was sizing her up before he answered.

"We're not really chatting any more, are we, Mrs. Brodie? We chatted about our shopping. You asking questions about my family that you expect me to answer, that's not chatting, it's more like... More like how a cop would behave."

"How about if you just tell me one thing about your family, one thing you're happy to tell me."

"Would you tell me something about yours, Mrs. Brodie? Would you feel okay about that?" Sally's expression said it all. "No, I didn't think so." They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments.

"You do already know some things about me," Patrick mused. "Mr. Taylor filled out a lot of forms at the CPS and the court. Ms. Lazczyck gave you a file on me. You know my dad's in prison. I guess you know my mom died?"

"Yes. I am very sorry Patrick." Sally's voice was quiet but sounded sincere.

"It's okay, it happened when I was a baby, I don't remember her. You don't really miss what you never really had." Lily had taught him this phrase, Patrick had said it all his life, to deflect teachers and other authority figures who had felt it necessary to bring up the subject of his mother. He still wasn't sure he believed it. "You know our address is in Stoney Ridge at the moment. Did the file say we're gypsies?"

"Melissa mentioned something at breakfast but no, it's not on your record." Patrick's face didn't show a glimmer of his inner smugness. 'Melissa mentioned!' He just bet she had, would lay good money on it being the only topic of conversation at the table that morning. He had expected she would lay the groundwork for him before he had to embark on this particular conversation.

"We live in an RV, travel for half the year because dad's a showman with the carnival. It's what we've always done, for generations of my family. We're gypsies, Mrs. Brodie, even if it doesn't say it on my record. Social workers and cops haven't always been kind to gypsies. The old stories say gypsies used to steal children, but the reality is the other way round. Cops and social workers steal gypsy children away from their families just because they don't understand our way of life. They go into care and we never see them again. Does that help you understand why I don't want to talk about myself and my family?" He knew he sounded convincing, could see by the shock on her face that Sally believed every word and now thought she understood him better too. Good, that should shut down any more questions, from the Brodies at least. It was a good story for his purposes, plausible but vague. Patrick had no idea if it was true but everyone was prepared to believe something like that might have gone on somewhere at some time. After all the world would never lack busybodies who thought they knew better than everyone else.

"Oh my God Patrick, I do understand, I understand completely, that's terrible, just awful, I can't imagine... I don't want you to think that's why I'm interested in your family. Of course I won't ask you any more questions. I just hope that, in time, you'll come to trust me – trust us – enough to feel able to talk about them. It must be hard, keeping quiet all the time about your family, that's all."

The following silence was more comfortable though Patrick still wore a thoughtful look. He gave it as long as he felt he could, he wanted to gain Sally's trust and he couldn't do that if she moved onto something else.

"You asked if there was anything I'd be happy talking about. Let me tell you a story about my aunt. No, it's okay," he said, to stifle her protests, "I'm happy to tell you this. It's about Lily. My aunt's name's Lily. I have a good story about Lily.

"A few years back Lily's husband, my uncle Estaban, was working on the crew for old man Schmidt when he had an accident, broke three of the fingers on his right hand. Now Schmidt, he owns five small carnival rides – the ones for pre-schoolers, y'know? – which are all assembled and disassembled by a single crew. Old man Schmidt wasn't a bad guy, he sorted Estaban out, took him to the ER in Cincinnati but he wasn't going to pay him when he couldn't work, so while they were waiting in the ER Lily goes up to Schmidt.

"She starts by asking if she can have Estaban's job until he's better. Well, Schmidt wants to do right by them but Estaban's a big guy and Lily's small, you'd think a strong breeze could blow her away. Schmidt's thinking there's no way she could take Estaban's place for the rest of the season. So Lily asks if he'll make a deal with her. She says she'll work as crew for free at the Cincinnati showground, finishing the setup, running the rides then working the take down the following week. If Schmidt still thinks she isn't pulling her weight he can arrange to take on another crewman at Columbus, but If she does well then he has to pay her ten percent of the takings while she works for him, not a fixed wage. Well, ten percent of the gross is huge. Schmidt's sure there's no way Lily can be as much use as Estaban but for the look of the thing he argues her down to four. Four percent of the takings is around fifteen percent of the profits, it's still huge, way more than the other crewmen earn but Schmidt's thinking he's onto a sure thing. He gets some free help today when he needs it and has enough time to hire a replacement crewman before he gets to the next venue.

"Lily spends the rest of the setup quietly watching how the crew does things. She can only do the light work, but the rest of the crew don't complain too much because they like Estaban and respect Lily for trying to step up. But without Estaban they have to work real late into the night and they still have more to do early the following morning after only a few hours sleep. They're only just ready when the carnival opens and the crewmen are exhausted. Lily takes on more than her fair share of time operating the rides, trying to make it up to them. They know old man Schmidt is calling in favors, trying to get a replacement crewman and they feel sorry for Lily but they're dreading take down day. Meanwhile Lily spends every spare moment thinking about what she learned during setup. She starts writing down a better way to deal with each of Schmidt's five machines, ends up with a whole new set of disassembly instructions, new packing orders, crew notes, the whole nine yards.

"Come take-down day, Lily takes charge. She might only be small but she's a tough cookie, you don't want to be on the receiving end when she's cussing someone out! In no time at all the crewmen are doing everything her way. And her way is better. A completely new take down schedule should mean it takes longer but dismantling every ride is faster. The two worst rides are much faster to disassemble and pack away for transport. It's easier on the crew as well so there's none of the bellyaching Schmidt usually gets on take down day. By mid-afternoon Schmidt's machines are all packed up and ready to go. That's never happened before.

"But Schmidt thinks it's a scam. He thinks Estaban must have thought all this up to make Lily look good after the terrible setup, so that Schmidt would take her onto the crew. He thinks she still wouldn't be able to pull her weight for the rest of the season. Schmidt doesn't want to lose four percent of his gross to a scam. He's already arranged to pick up an emergency crewman on the way to the next showground. He's seen Lily refer to her written notes all day, he thinks he can get away with not keeping her on because of the slow setup. He's prepared to pay for what he thinks are Estaban's notes but not four percent of the gross for the rest of the season. When he says all this to Lily, well she goes nuts. Lily's got a hell of a temper anyway and accusing her of being less smart than a man, well, that's like a red rag to a bull for Lily. She gives him an earful then digs out her lighter and sets fire to the notes. Now Schmidt's going crazy too, those notes just saved him hours of take-down and German's a great language for cussing. Estaban's joined the crowd watching them by now. Lily in full flow always attracts a crowd, no-one wants to be in the firing line but everyone wants to be in earshot when Lily's telling someone off. Anyway, Estaban waits until the fight's over then tells Schmidt all he knows about any notes is that Lily's been scribbling things down all week. Lily's a seamstress in the winter but people don't need new costumes so much when they're working the circuit so she runs a set of cotton candy concessions during carnival season. Estaban's been looking after Lily's machines and crew all week, he didn't have time to write anything, they swapped jobs so Lily could try to keep Estaban's job on Schmidt's crew.

"Well, you can bet Schmidt is pretty sorry now for what he said. He's old fashioned, European, he puts on a fancy suit no-one's ever seen him wear before, like a dress uniform for some foreign General, all gold braid and medal ribbons. He polishes up his shoes and even buys flowers. To look at him you'd think he was some foreign ambassador going to apologize to the First Lady. Lily's impressed so she hears him out but she's still stinging from what he said before. She says to Schmidt that the only place the instructions are now is in her head. The crewmen won't remember how they did the takedown until they've done it her way a lot more times. Her setup's even better but they'll never get to see it unless Schmidt keeps his side of the bargain, only now it'll cost him six percent of the gross. She tells him if they get more practice the crew'll get even faster doing things her way. She says by next season he'll be able to set up and run six rides with the same size crew. He gets all of this for just six percent of the gross for the rest of the season. Well of course Schmidt has to say yes, this deal's gone from being a scam to being the bargain of the century.

"So for the rest of the season Lily's the head crewman for Schmidt and she's as good as her word. By the end of the season the setup's shorter by fifteen man-hours, the take down's shorter by twelve and she even trains up old man Schmidt to make it all happen her way just like clockwork in preparation for when she leaves the crew. Estsaban brings in about the same as Lily usually does on cotton candy but Lily makes way more for the rest of that season than Estaban would have. They have enough money for Estaban to study for his electrician's certificate over winter. Schmidt buys another little ride off of some old guy who's retiring and pays Lily to write a new setup and take down for it. Come next season Schmidt's running six rides for the cost of five and his takings are up twenty percent even though he doesn't have Estaban on his crew any more. Estaban has moved on because he now has his certificate, he's got a better-paying job on the electrical crew."

Sally had been listening to Patrick's story with rapt attention. "Your aunt Lily sounds like an amazing woman!"

"Hmm," Patrick grinned. "Lily has plenty of flaws but she is smart. She can see all the angles when you still think you're looking at curves. Dad always said it was good how much we kept her occupied or she'd be running the country." Sally pursed her lips and shook her head at this.

* * *

They returned from their trip to Sacramento and Patrick spent the rest of the afternoon working on the bicycle in the garage. By the time the other kids returned from school the bike frame was stripped, he'd cleaned up everything he could and made a list of replacement parts he'd need to buy tomorrow if he was going to fix it up that weekend. Right now he needed to get back to Stoney Ridge. He had to open negotiations with Pops and Billy Ruskin so that he and his dad could work the West Coast circuit next season, and with Mick Turner and the Barsockys about renting out the RV. If they agreed he also had around a couple of hours' work to pick up their cash and move the rest of their stuff into storage. Most of all he needed to spend some time in a place that felt more like home.

It took a surprisingly small amount of pleading to get permission to skip dinner at the Brodies and instead head over to Stoney Ridge for the evening. Sally had only shown token reluctance but had insisted he be back by nine. Well, maybe, if he was finished by then. He checked out the bus times when he arrived at Stoney Ridge and yeah, there was a bus that would get him back only five minutes late, though Patrick wasn't sure he would be finished in time. He decided it wasn't worth worrying about.

It felt good to walk back into Stoney Ridge Trailer Park. He'd only left yesterday but it seemed longer. There was no-one around until he drew level with the office, when Mary Brown, the youngest member of his gang, emerged from the laundromat with her mom. With a squeal she ran over, much as Jenni had yesterday, but Mary launched herself into his arms. He used her momentum to swing her round then set her back on her feet.

"Hey, kiddo! What's happening?"

"Mom took me to the Laundromat! I never went before! It's full of big machines, like in Star Wars, and you make them go by putting hundreds of quarters in the slots, and you can watch your clothes go round and round because there's round windows in the big drying machines! It's like the tumbler on the Fun House but for clothes!"

"That sounds cool," Patrick replied smiling, "Just like Star Wars. I expect they get Chewbacca to fix everything when it breaks down." Patrick brushed his hair forward over his face and made a 'Chewbacca' growly noise. Mary giggled. "Do you know where the rest of the gang is?"

"I think they went to Danny and Angela's. Pops bought a VCR!"

"Wow, it's all happening today!" he smiled. "Are you gonna help your mom take the clean clothes back now?" Mary's face fell a little.

"Yeah, I guess."

"I got some business with Pops. Is he still at home?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Thanks kiddo."

"Paddy, you really in Juvie now?" Mary asked shyly. That was unexpected. He was even more glad he came over this afternoon rather than leaving it until tomorrow, he needed to nip a rumor like that in the bud. He knelt down on one knee to look Mary in the eye but raised his voice a little so Mary's mom would hear this too.

"No, Mary, not Juvie. I just moved into town for a while, that's all. You know not everyone stays on the trailer park in winter, right? I'm definitely not in Juvenile Hall. You tell everyone you see that you got it from the horse's mouth. You tell them you saw me here and I told you myself. Okay?"

"Okay Paddy." Patrick stood and waved at Mrs. Brown as Mary ran back to her, his mind going back to when Taylor came for him yesterday.

"Always a pleasure, Mrs. Brown."

* * *

It was good to see the gang at the Ruskin's place. Pops Ruskin owned the trailer park and had built a house on the highest point of land. Most of the gang were there, watching The Goonies, but the film was forgotten when he arrived. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed them all until he felt himself relaxing, basking in the affection of their hugs and greetings. Everyone wanted to know what had happened, the news of his and his dad's arrests eclipsing even the arrival of the new VCR. He repeated his brief tale several times, asking everyone to pass on the news that he wasn't in Juvie after all. They all wanted him to sit and join them for the rest of the film but he declined, instead wordlessly asking Angela if they could talk. As they headed into the kitchen Danny looked around curiously but one of the Ruskin kids had to stay with the gang.

"It's good to see you, Ani, good to be back," Patrick started, giving her another hug. "I know it's only been a day but it seems longer to me."

"Good to see you, too, Paddy. We all thought we wouldn't be seeing you again for a while. You really okay?" Angela sat up on a stool and started absently swinging her legs.

"Yeah, I think so. It was a bit of a shock, dad getting arrested like that then Taylor, that's his lawyer, telling me I couldn't stay here, not even with the Barsockys. I'm in care, not Juvie. I have to stay with foster–" he hesitated then settled on a different word – "carers in town but I think I landed on my feet. The place I'm staying, there are just three other foster kids, one girl who's fourteen and a brother and sister who're young, maybe six and seven. It's an older couple who are the carers, the Brodies. He seems okay though I haven't had much to do with him yet, I just made him breakfast, put me in his good books. She's way too overprotective, tries to use it to be controlling but it's nothing I can't handle." Angela snorted with laughter.

"Sorry, Paddy, but controlling! You always say that about your dad. You'd say it about anyone who didn't just let you do what you wanted. I bet you'd say it about Gimpy Bill." Gimpy Bill was a long-term crewman, an ex-hippy known to have given the keys to his pickup to a nine-year-old one time just because the kid had asked if he could have a go at driving. Patrick looked affronted then he chuckled too.

"Yeah, well, maybe. Dad is controlling but she's something else. She treats me like I'm four years old and made out of glass. She drove me to Sacramento because she didn't want me to get the bus, she gave me money for clothes but needed exact change and a receipt, she sat me down and went to the counter to buy me lunch and she gave me an allowance. Thirteen-dollars, Ani. I'm supposed to save it up if I want to buy something that costs more than that. I guess I'm supposed to learn how to manage my own money." Angela's face was a picture then they both burst out laughing.

"Did you tell her you run the housekeeping for your dad?"

Patrick shook his head. "No. At first I was too surprised, then it was too weird. I mean she's okay but it's like we're not even on the same planet most of the time." Patrick paused for a second. "Talking about money, I need to see your granddad about next season. And Billy Ruskin, if he's around."

"Yeah, uncle Billy and the West Coast carnival got back today. There's a family barbecue tonight, they'll all be here. Come over about eight, I'll tell them I invited you. What's it about?"

"Just checking about next season. Because dad's, you know, gonna be out of the picture for a while." Patrick's face said he really didn't want to go into details. Angela nodded.

"You sorting things out for the act, huh? Maybe it'll be your dad's turn to call you controlling."

Patrick grinned at this. "I think I'd like that. Speaking of which, are you and Dougie gonna be okay looking after the gang over winter? I'll be around, just not much." At her inquiring look he added, "I have to go to school." Angela's eyes widened.

"You're kidding me!"

"Wish I was. Carson Springs Middle School, I start in the seventh grade on Monday. They didn't even ask me about it."

"What will you do?"

"Well I'll go, obviously. At least to start with. I'm kinda curious. You hear people talk about school and…well… practice, y'know? People our age are easy to read. I'm the psychic gypsy-boy, after all. Gotta keep my hand in." Angela rolled her eyes at this. "Nah, I used to like school, mostly. Except when they confiscated my stuff. I like learning, I learned how to make coffee just this morning."

"You're trying to change the subject. You. In school. I can't see it. If you think Mrs. Whatever is controlling–"

"Yeah yeah Dorothy, teachers and rules and detentions, oh my!" He put his hands on his face in a Judy-Garland-style look of mock horror.

"Patrick Jane, it's not just that, you can get into a fight with townie boys just by standing still with your back to them!"

"That only ever happened one time and it wasn't a fight, no-one managed to lay a finger on me. And I never hit anyone in my life."

"You _start_ fights. You get beaten up in fights."

"I think you'll find it's _other people_ who start fights when I just happen to be around."

Angela actually growled in frustration. "You know what I mean! You only don't end up beaten to a pulp all the time because you're quick, either fast talking or fast running! Do you think you can manage that trick when there's hundreds of them, and nowhere to run?"

"Yeah, well. Maybe I'll be a quiet kid. Until I work out how to avoid going to school without getting into trouble. Dad and Taylor both said I need to keep out of trouble."

"A quiet kid. Right. And since when have you ever kept out of trouble?" Angela smiled ruefully and shook her head.

"Hey, you should see me at the Brodies, I've been the kid version of a Stepford Wife." Patrick pulled a vacant face and did a few robot moves, making Angela laugh again. "I don't want to end up in Juvie for real. Taylor hinted it could happen if I do something too shady, with carers and social workers watching me all the time. You know what townies are like."

"I do know what they're like, Paddy, but I wonder if you do when you come out with stuff like that." There was a long pause. This was an old, old argument that neither particularly wanted to fire up again.

"You really didn't know how to make coffee?" Angela eventually asked, curious.

Patrick shrugged. "We only ever drink tea at home. We got instant but I never used a filter machine to make coffee." There was another long pause. "You and Dougie really gonna be okay with the gang?"

"Well it won't be the gang without you running it and thinking up crazy schemes to get them all into hot water. I'm just gonna be babysitting. I don't want to run a gang and Dougie might want to but he couldn't run a tap into a drain." Patrick chuckled. "It's quieter in winter anyway, they're all starting school on Monday as well. Me too, in a way. Nannie says she's gonna teach me double-entry bookkeeping this winter, so I get to do the official books for all the circuits, then I get to do the _unofficial_ books, and finally, as a special treat, she's letting me help her with the tax returns for the family. Woo hoo." Angela made a fake unenthusiastic cheerleader move, waving invisible pompoms. Nannie was Annie Ruskin, wife to Pops, Angela's grandma and matriarch to the sprawling Ruskin family. She was training Angela up in the ways of finance to be her replacement down the line, much to Angela's chagrin. There was another thoughtful pause.

"I need to go over to see the Barsockys and sort out the RV. I might be renting it to Katy and her man so long as we can come to an agreement and if he'll sign a contract. Long story," he added in response to her raised eyebrows. "If it all goes to plan then they'll be getting married sooner rather than later. You heard it here first."

Angela grinned. She liked Katy Barsocky and a wedding was always good news. Trust Patrick to be in the middle of it. "I'll still wait until I hear it from them before I believe it. You are rubbish at gossip, Patrick Jane."

"Nah, I'm just better at listening to it than telling it," he grinned.

* * *

Katy Barsocky was thrilled with the idea of marrying Mick as soon as possible and moving into the Janes' RV for six months. Mick Turner took a little more persuading, wholeheartedly in favor of the wedding but decidedly reluctant about signing a written contract. He acquiesced eventually when Katy suggested they could take the RV on an extended motor honeymoon along the coast. Josh and Maria seemed pleased that their daughter would be living next door, at least for the first six months of her marriage. Bartering took place and eventually everyone agreed that a grand was the right amount to pay up-front for six months' rental, provided Patrick had the RV serviced before they drove it away on their honeymoon and the Turners filled it with a full tank of gas before they moved out in April. The happy couple immediately started planning to get their blood tests and marriage license in the morning, in expectation of having their Courthouse wedding at the end of next week.

Josh and Maria started telling their neighbors and calling in various favors to help give their daughter a big wedding party at the trailer park on the Saturday. Big tents were promised as a venue, catering Carnival-style and picnic tables were quickly forthcoming and an impromptu band of musicians promised to start rehearsing straight away. Josh himself would decorate it all with Carnival lights. As the news spread excited talk and congratulations mingled with serious planning. The number of neighbors dropping by with well wishes and offers of help grew so Patrick slipped away unnoticed to the RV. News of a wedding was the perfect distraction for his purposes.

It took Patrick a little over an hour to clear everything personal out of the RV, including all the cash hidden inside. The Barsocky's trailer had become the venue for an impromptu party-to-plan-a-party as the sun set. In the twilight it became easier for Patrick to work unnoticed around the outside, opening the hood, checking underneath and finally inside the cab as though checking what work needed done as well as the service, in fact rooting out the last of the cash from its hiding places around the RV. He stashed it temporarily in the storage trailer, then wandered back over to the Barsockys and sought out Pete.

"Hey, Pete, how many favors do I owe you now?"

"Hey Paddy! Why'd you only ever ask me that question when you want another favor, not when you want to start paying 'em back?" Pete smiled his slow, broad grin.

"Meh, I'm just working up to a round number. How many of them have you had?" Patrick nodded at the beer in Pete's hand.

"Oh, you want me to drive ya home, is that it? Okay, this is only my second. C'mon, get your stuff." When Patrick didn't move he narrowed his eyes. "You gonna owe me two favors if you want me to stop drinking tonight as well. In case you hadn't noticed we're celebrating here!"

"I just need to have a word with Pops and Billy Ruskin before I go. I won't make the early bus and I'm supposed to be back across town by nine. In care," he added, rolling his eyes. "You don't have to stop drinking, Pete, just still be able to drive in about an hour or so, huh? I can, uh, save you some beers for later." They both understood what Patrick meant by 'save'.

"Six pack. Don't get caught. And you still owe me a favor, in fact this one makes eighteen!"

"Thanks, Pete."


	5. Chapter 5

It was almost ten when Patrick finally got back to the Brodie's house. The rolls of twenties felt reassuringly bulky in his various pockets as he waved goodbye to Pete. He'd hang onto them overnight then drop by Taylor's place tomorrow, he needed to pick up that RV contract from Taylor anyway. The lights were still on in the house as he ran up the steps to the porch and pushed at the Brodie's front door. It was locked. He briefly wished he'd asked Danny to come for the ride now, he wouldn't have any problems with a lock like this but then considered how it would look getting his friend to break into the Brodie house. Maybe it was best he hadn't thought of it. As he wondered whether to knock, try the back door or look for an open window he heard the lock turning. It was William Brodie who opened the door.

"Patrick Jane, you're late." The man regarded Patrick solemnly. Patrick kept his face carefully blank as he tried to read the man and the situation. It was past his nine pm curfew but surely not that late, his bedtime last night had been around ten. He guessed he was in for a telling-off, possibly even sanctions of some kind. William looked disappointed but at least he didn't look angry or violent. Patrick thought of everything he had guessed about the man. Growing up poor, Brodie would be less impressed than his wife by any poverty-based stories Patrick told to elicit sympathy. Christian, might be more judgmental than sympathetic about his dad being in prison. Smart too, Patrick thought with mild dismay, unlike Sally he'd likely spot plausible-but-vague stories from a mile away. It didn't look like the breakfast he cooked the man had left Brodie feeling as obligated to Patrick as he could have wished, the way to this man's heart wasn't through his stomach. His options for talking his way out of trouble seemed to be narrowing by the second. Brodie waved Patrick through the door. "To the kitchen, please." That made sense. If there was going to be shouting the kitchen was furthest from the kids' bedrooms. With a sigh Patrick headed towards the back of the house. Sally was waiting in the kitchen, looking anxious.

"Patrick! We were starting to get worried! Where have you been?"

"Mrs. Brodie, you know where I've been. Before I went I told you I had some business over at Stoney Ridge. When it came time to come back I missed the bus so I had to go ask one of my friends for a lift. I got back here as soon as I could. Pete just dropped me off a moment ago, I guess you saw his truck." Patrick knew he sounded plausible, the fact that he hadn't even bothered trying to catch the bus was a minor detail.

"We told you to be back by nine at the latest." Sally sounded disappointed. "When you knew that you were going to be late you should have called."

"I am sorry, Mrs. Brodie, I didn't even think of calling. I'm not used to having a phone." It was entirely true. None of the trailers had a phone, the CB generally taking its place in the Carny world. His call to Taylor after his dad's arrest had been the only phone call Patrick had made that year. "I came back as soon as I could, and you knew where I was."

"We know where you said you'd be." Brodie sounded surprisingly unsympathetic. Maybe he'd been a good liar in his youth, into something shady even. That would explain his attitude. Damn, now Patrick wished he had searched Brodie's bedroom yesterday, it might have given him a better idea of what to expect from the man. Getting out of trouble wasn't going to be easy. "Even if you went to Stoney Ridge we don't know what you were doing there." Patrick knew he hadn't done anything to make the guy this suspicious. Perhaps Brodie simply never did buy the polite 'Stepford Kid' act, had thought all along that Patrick was doing it to hide something bad. He wondered what Sally had told him about their day, guessed that Brodie hadn't been very impressed by his 'poor misunderstood gypsy boy' routine. Dammit, that had been nearly true! Probably more truth than lies, anyway. "What was this 'business' that you had over at Stoney Ridge?"

Patrick chose at that moment to tell the truth. He might not be believed but he didn't want to be caught in a lie if he could avoid it. "I wanted to see my friends and I needed to take care of some things for my dad," Patrick replied simply, hoping that mentioning his family and the implication that he was doing something for a grown-up would provide credibility. It was a gamble because he still wasn't sure what Brodie thought about convicts but Patrick was playing with a weak hand anyway. At least the Brodies were both expressive, in their faces and their body language. He knew what they were thinking, just not why. "I wasn't doing anything wrong." It was true, apart from the six pack of beer he'd liberated for Pete from the Ruskins barbecue when no-one was looking – and even the Ruskins wouldn't object too strongly to that. He knew from Brodie's face that he'd said the wrong thing as soon as he said it. It was childish and sounded defensive. He cursed himself inwardly.

"That's not very reassuring, Patrick. Your father is in prison–"

"Dad hasn't been convicted of anything!" Patrick interrupted hotly.

"Yet," Brodie replied. Patrick decided to change tack.

"Mr. Brodie, I left our RV in kind of a hurry yesterday so I needed to spend some time tidying up. I had to speak with the carnival boss about work next summer. Normally Dad would do these kinds of things but he can't at the moment so I have to do them. The only other things I did this evening were see my friends, chat with my neighbors. Ordinary things. It just took a bit longer than I expected so I ended up missing the bus. I got back as soon as I could."

"Forgive me if I don't take your word for it," Brodie seemed implacable. "I wasn't born yesterday. Turn out your pockets, please."

"What?" Brodie had obviously noticed his pockets were bulging. Damn!

"If you weren't doing anything wrong then you won't mind showing us what's filling your pockets." Brodie spoke slowly and clearly.

"That doesn't make sense," Patrick directed his appeal to Sally as the more sympathetic adult in the room. "There's plenty of things people carry in their pockets that they wouldn't want to show anyone even though they aren't illegal." Shit shit shit! Why had he used that word? Absolutely the wrong word to be planting in their minds at this point.

"I'm sorry, Patrick, I think we have to insist." Sally had the decency to look uncomfortable. "You're back very late and you're being evasive. We're your foster parents, we're responsible for you."

"What happens if I refuse?"

"Would you like me to call the Sheriff? You were nearly an hour late and now you're acting as though you've been doing something you shouldn't." Brodie looked like he'd do it, too.

Patrick hesitated, remembering what his dad and Taylor had said about drawing official attention to himself. Taylor! He knew Patrick would be carrying money at some point, it was destined for his safe anyway. Patrick quickly formulated a strategy. All he had to do was make sure they called Taylor, not the Sheriff.

First things first. Patrick slowly started turning out his pockets. The Brodies' astonishment increased with every fat roll of twenties, carefully bound with an elastic band, that he pulled out from his jacket and trouser pockets. They looked positively horrified at his roll of lock picks. The rest – small change, keys, a pack of cards, some paper and receipts – were barely looked at. Well, he guessed he was due a break around now, even a small one like that. Eventually everything was sitting on the kitchen table. William was looking a little shocked now. Did the guy really think he'd been out housebreaking? Sally looked positively nauseous.

"Patrick, are those lock picks? And all this money! Where did it all come from?" Oh great, Sally was using her 'talking to children' voice again.

"The picks were a birthday present, one of my close friends is an escapologist. I earned the money–"

"Please don't lie to us, Patrick." Brodie interrupted, sounding weary rather than angry. "Thirteen year old boys don't earn hundreds of dollars. Did you steal it?"

Patrick felt a little piqued by 'hundreds'. "There's seven thousand six hundred and seventy-two dollars on your table right now, Mr. Brodie," Patrick said coldly. "I do a carnival act with my dad, that's why I want to learn to use lock picks, and between us we earned every penny." Patrick willed himself not to think about his dad's gambling wins or any of the cons they'd run that season. They were earnings too, of a sort. "And I'm not saying anything else until I've spoken to my lawyer. Mr. Taylor. That's his business card right there on the table. He said I can call him any time so I'd like to call him now, please."

Brodie sighed. "Sally, I don't know what's going on here but I do know it needs to be sorted out. I'm going to call the Sheriff." Brodie turned towards the phone and Patrick decided to call his bluff.

"That's your right if you feel it's necessary, Mr. Brodie. Of course, the first thing I'll ask the Sheriff to do at the station house is call Mr. Taylor to sort all this out. You think I'm lying so nothing I say will convince you, but Mr. Taylor knows all about this money. In fact he's expecting me to take it to his office so he can lock it in his safe while I'm in foster care. He can sort out this… misunderstanding," he emphasized the word and shot a pointed look at Sally which definitely hit home, "in the time it would take the Sheriff just to get here." Patrick could see Sally was wavering so he softened his tone to a heartfelt plea.

"Please, Mrs. Brodie? Call my lawyer first, before you call the cops? Please?" Brodie and his wife exchanged a look.

"Um, Taylor was named on Patrick's record, Will. He was his guardian _ad litem._" Brodie nodded so Sally picked up Taylor's card and walked across the room to the phone. She dialed the number and Patrick was again impressed how few rings it took for Taylor to answer.

"Mr. Taylor? You don't know me, my name is Sally Brodie and I'm Patrick Jane's foster mom… No, no, nothing like that– Oh! Oh, okay…" She looked uncertainly to her husband then Patrick. "He wants to speak to Patrick." Brodie reached for the phone.

"Mr. Taylor, this is William Brodie–" This time Patrick could hear the sound of Taylor on the phone, not shouting but definitely louder.. "Uh, okay, he's right here, I'll put him on." Brodie beckoned Patrick across the kitchen and handed him the phone.

"I'm sorry to call you so late, Mr. Taylor… I'm fine, sir, but I think I do need your help… Thank you, sir. Should I fill you in– yes, sir… No, sir… The Brodies house… Thank you, Mr. Taylor." He turned to the Brodies. "Mr. Taylor said he'll be here as soon as possible. He also told me not to say anything until he gets here."

* * *

It was not yet midnight as Patrick lay awake in bed, thinking. There was no way he was going to trust the Brodies after this evening. He hadn't exactly trusted them before but he'd still been blindsided by them, by William's mistrust of him. He hadn't been expecting a simple missed curfew to get so out of hand so fast. Kind of like Liss yesterday, things had gone bad real fast then too. He was sure he wasn't being careless, these people were tough and vulnerable in ways that he found unexpected. If this was what townies were like up-close he needed to put some work in to really understand them, be able to anticipate them rather than just cold-reading what they were feeling in the moment. He suddenly wondered where Liss had been all evening. She hadn't been in the kitchen and there had been no sounds from either TV room. Had she been sent to her room early so as not to listen in? Had she listened in anyway? He'd have to find out tomorrow.

Taylor had been magnificent, there was no other way to describe the man when he was working. Patrick had seen Taylor in action at the CPS and court, of course, but that had been so far outside his experience he hadn't particularly considered how big a part Taylor had played yesterday. When the man arrived at the Brodie's house he hadn't even conferred with Patrick, simply acknowledged him briefly before starting to work his magic on Sally and William. And it had been like magic or, Patrick thought now, like a cross between a TV courtroom drama and a 'memory man' act. Taylor had effortlessly remembered everything about Patrick and seamlessly pulled each fact out when it had been most useful to his cause.

Taylor had begun by asking the Brodies for their side of the story then simply listened to them until his silence made them run out of words. He'd made notes but Patrick doubted that he'd needed to. Once the Brodies finished Taylor's opening salvo had been to name almost the exact sum of money on their kitchen table. He must have remembered the amounts Alex and Patrick had talked about at the Sheriff's office. Patrick could see how surprised Brodie had been at that point, he hadn't expected Taylor to really know all about the money without having to confer with Patrick first. Taylor had gone on to explain how usual it was for a carnival showman to have his full year's earnings in cash in his pocket – or in this case in his son's possession – at the end of carnival season. He described Patrick's role in helping to earn this money in the 'Boy Wonder' act, explained his usual financial responsibilities regarding the housekeeping and how this year in his father's absence Patrick was also taking on responsibility for all the big winter expenses. If he laid it on a little thick at this point it only made it sound more plausible, not less, that Patrick would be carrying nearly eight thousand dollars in his pockets, destined for Taylor's own safe back at his office. Finally he reassured the Brodies that the money had indeed been earned, not stolen, as the criminal charges Alex was facing were in the nature of intent or conspiracy to defraud rather than as a result of actually defrauding anyone of their money.

The toughest moment had been explaining away the lock picks. Taylor had mentioned Patrick's magic act at that point, said he assumed the picks were for practicing opening locks for a magic trick. Patrick, following Taylor's lead, had simply agreed, repeating that they had been a recent birthday present given by an escapologist friend for that very purpose. The highlight of the evening had happened after Taylor had mentioned the RV rental contract and the possibility that another thousand dollars in cash might be on its way to his safe in the next day or so. At that point Patrick had cautiously interrupted, asking Taylor to add to the contract the stipulations about servicing the vehicle beforehand and returning it with a full tank of gas. Hearing Mr. Taylor respond 'Of course, Mr. Jane' in a casual deadpan as he made a small note, seeing Brodie's expression when he said it, had almost made worthwhile every uncomfortable minute he'd endured at the Brodies' hands. Patrick grinned to himself in the dark at the memory of it.

Taylor had been very insistent that his details should be added to Patrick's school record as a responsible adult as well as Lazczyck and the Brodies. Patrick hadn't really understood why, his explanation 'just in case' had been as vague as any of Patrick's stories but he was glad. If there was trouble at school he'd rather have Taylor on his side than someone who didn't know him, or people who assumed he was a thief.

Taylor had also agreed to pass on the suit Patrick had bought for his dad which gave Patrick a moment to speak with Taylor alone at the end of the evening as he saw the man out. Patrick could see the twinkle in Taylor's eyes as he thanked him for his time and help.

At the door Patrick had murmured, "It was a real pleasure watching you in action this evening, Mr. Taylor. Thank you again." Taylor had smiled.

"Don't hesitate to call me if you need any more help. It wasn't a one-time offer, Paddy. Try to stay out of trouble. And… don't be too hard on the Brodies."

Yeah, right.

* * *

Patrick Jane made eggs and toast again for William Brodie on Friday morning, this time with a pot of coffee as well as his own cup of tea. The boy wasn't giving him the silent treatment so it took Brodie a while to figure out what was going on. Patrick was more specific when he asked permission again both to cook and to continue using Brodie's tools to fix up the old bicycle, checking everything carefully with Brodie rather than chatting easily. As Patrick served up the eggs Brodie decided he had had enough. Patrick was surprised he'd lasted that long, had laid Brodie's place at the table facing the window in anticipation of this conversation. Patrick wanted to read the smallest change of expression on the man's face.

"Patrick, I have said I'm sorry about yesterday. There's no need to sulk."

"You were going to call the Sheriff on me."

"Yes. And I'd do it again. You can't expect me to allow children in my care to break the law."

"I hadn't broken the law."

"You have to admit you were behaving suspiciously, carrying all that money and a set of lock picks! I'm still not sure I shouldn't take those away from you."

"I hadn't broken the law, Mr. Brodie. It was our money. Owning lock picks isn't illegal. Using them in a carnival act also isn't illegal. Why were you so suspicious of me?"

"I just told you, you were acting suspiciously." Gotcha! Patrick thought.

"No, I was late. You were already suspicious of me before I walked in the door. Why is that, Mr. Brodie?"

"You were supposed to be back by nine and when you weren't–"

"I was just late, Mr. Brodie. Just late. When a kid's late you tell them off or ground them, you don't suspect they're breaking into houses. Unless… Were you up to no good when you were thirteen, Mr. Brodie?"

"We're talking about you, Patrick." Bingo! The man's face had practically confessed to Patrick that had indeed been the case.

"Yeah, you were involved in some shady stuff as a kid. Were you ever arrested, Mr. Brodie?" Brodies eyes widened. "Yes you were!" Patrick's voice was a mix of surprise and curiosity. "Was it theft? Is that why you thought I had been stealing?" Brodie's reaction was much less strong. "No, not theft, not exactly. You didn't steal money... Shoplifting?" Yes! "You were arrested for shoplifting when you were around my age, weren't you, Mr. Brodie."

"What the hell–"

"Did you spend time in Juvie for it, Mr. Brodie?" No reaction. "No, someone gave you a break. They thought you were basically a good kid, that you gave in to temptation just that one time." Reacted to 'one time', that's interesting. "What happened, Mr. Brodie? Please, tell me what happened when you were thirteen." Patrick let the silence extend, as Taylor had done two days ago with him. Eventually Brodie filled it.

"I wasn't arrested but I was caught. Father Lazczyck saw me steal cigarettes from the drug store. Yes, it isn't a common name," he nodded at the expression on Patrick's face. "He was a relative of your social worker, her great uncle, in fact. Father Lazczyck fled to the States with his two nephews after the death of his brother and sister-in-law at the hands of the Nazis. The older boy's daughter is your Stella Lazczyck." Patrick took in the information but ignored Brodie's attempt to divert his attention.

"That wasn't the first time you'd stolen cigarettes, though, was it, Mr. Brodie?" Brodie's eyes widened again for a fraction of a second. "No, you let Father Lazczyck believe it was but in fact you'd been stealing them from the drug store for a while before you were caught. He stopped you stealing them again though. What did he do?"

"He took me back to the drug store and told old McAdam what he saw. Made me apologize and give the cigarettes back. Then he persuaded McAdam not to press charges. How – how did you know?"

"So you let the good Father believe you'd never stolen anything before, let him persuade McAdam not to call the Sheriff, but you were going to call the Sheriff on me last night, Mr. Brodie. You didn't believe me because you knew you'd deceived Father Lazczyck when you were thirteen. You were grateful to him back then, never stole anything ever again, but you wouldn't even consider the possibility that I'm not like you were at that age." That was a bullseye.

Brodie opened and closed his mouth a few times, then managed, "I'm grateful that he caught me. I could have ended up just another hoodlum from Carson Springs. Being caught set me back on the straight and narrow."

"Would being sent to Juvenile Hall have set you on the straight and narrow, Mr. Brodie?" No, of course not. I am reading you like a book now, Mr Brodie, thought Patrick. He'd never been this good at reading people before in his life, but then the stakes had never been this high before.

"The Sheriff would have straightened things out last night–"

"The Sheriff would have arrested me last night. It would have taken days to sort things out once they became official and I'd have been in Juvie the whole time. I'm not like you were, Mr. Brodie. Even if you don't trust me I deserve to be given the benefit of the doubt." You could crack rocks on the certainty in Patrick's voice now.

"I… I have to go to work." Brodie had barely touched his breakfast. He gulped down some coffee, picked up his jacket then stopped, turned to look at Patrick. "I really am sorry, Patrick. You're right, I did assume you were up to no good, and that was wrong of me. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt." The man was finally feeling ashamed of how he behaved last night.

"Thank you for that, Mr. Brodie."

* * *

When Sally came down the kitchen was clear, the only hint he had cooked breakfast again was half a pot of coffee keeping warm on the hot plate and the table set for three breakfasts. Sally shook her head as she got the orange juice and cereal out. She hoped this meant all was back on track after last night. Liss appeared at the door and breakfast began. After a while Sally noticed Patrick seemed to be bringing the bicycle and repair paraphernalia around to the patio outside the kitchen window. Towards the end of breakfast Patrick knocked on the back door and waited for Sally to open it.

"Mrs. Brodie ma'am, is it okay if I keep working on the bicycle today? I brought it out here so you can keep an eye on me while I do it." His tone was subdued.

"Hi Patrick!" Jenni and Paul waved from the kitchen table, grinning. Liss gave him a curious look. Patrick waved back.

"Well of course, Patrick, but wouldn't it be easier to fix it up in the garage?"

Patrick didn't reply, instead he went on in the same low voice, "Does that mean you'll buy the new tires and other things I need, ma'am? I have all the old worn-out parts in a box here if you want to check my list.' He held up a scrap of paper.

"No, it's okay, I'm sure you haven't forgotten to write anything down. I mean, yes, we were planning to buy the replacement parts for you, it's our son's old bicycle that you're fixing up after all. Let's go to the bicycle shop after Stella's visit. She said you were her first appointment this morning, she should be here around ten."

"Thank you, ma'am. Am I allowed to leave the bike out there? I'll put Mr. Brodie's tools away."

"Okay Patrick." Sally had been expecting Patrick to say something about last night or even to be angry or upset with her. She wasn't sure what to make of Patrick's new manner, he seemed even more polite than he had been previously but his tone and expression were almost sad.

"Patrick! Come sit with us!" Jenni was waving at the empty fourth chair, looking expectant. Patrick hesitated, but the Ng kids hadn't done anything to him and he still wanted to talk to Liss about last night. He grinned back at Jenni. Sally realized what had been different, Patrick hadn't even so much as smiled this morning until now.

"Hey, Jenni! I need to put these tools away but by then you'll be finished with breakfast." Liss was already getting up from the table.

"Are you coming on the school bus today?"

"Not today, sweetie, but Liss is riding with you today." Patrick caught Liss's eye as she left the kitchen. Jenni made a face at her retreating back.

"Please come on the bus with us Patrick!" Even Paul said a quiet, lisping 'Please'. Patrick glanced at Sally but she was now occupied with packing up their lunches in the kitchen. Paul was looking at him hopefully. Something was going on but before he could even begin to speculate Sally turned around.

"Here's your lunch bags," she said, putting them on the counter. "Go put your shoes on, you don't want to be late for the bus." The Ng kids scrambled off.

"Maybe I can walk them to the bus?" Patrick had resumed his quiet voice. "Would that be okay, Mrs. Brodie? Am I allowed to walk with them to the bus stop this morning?"

That second 'am I allowed' got Sally thinking. He was being extra cautious with her again. It looked like the events of yesterday evening had pushed their relationship back to square one. Or even further back, maybe. Sally hesitated and Patrick took it as a refusal.

"Okay then–" he muttered, his expression hardening for a second.

"Of course you can walk them to the bus stop, Patrick," Sally interrupted. "You've made quite an impression on Jenni and Paul! You're their favorite person right now."

"Thank you ma'am. I like them, too. May I wait with them until the bus arrives?"

"Yes Patrick, that would be nice of you. Uh, Patrick–" Sally's tone hinted she was going to launch into something that he didn't have time for.

"I'll put these tools in the garage and meet them round the front," Patrick said simply as he turned away, then he turned back. "If that's okay, ma'am?"

"Okay Patrick." Sally had the look of someone who had only been temporarily thwarted.

"Was that about last night? Are you grounded?" As soon as the front door was shut Liss started with her questions.

"Were you listening in last night?"

"Nope. I wanted to but they sent me to my room! I said I hadn't broken any curfew but they just said they wanted to talk to you in private. I heard someone at the door a while later, I came to the top of the stairs but you can't hear anything that's happening in the kitchen from up there. I heard you get something from your room later to give to the guy when he left. He said not to be too hard on the Brodies. What did that mean? Didn't they ground you for breaking curfew?"

"Not grounded for breaking curfew. I don't think. They didn't mention it. Nearly arrested for housebreaking and theft instead." Liss's expression turned to one of utter astonishment. "That guy was my lawyer, Taylor, he came over and sorted things out. Not arrested, but I don't really know where I stand right now. Look, can we catch up later? I want to have a word with Jenni and Paul. Something's going on with them, do you know what it is?"

"What? Arrested? What do you mean–"

"Later, okay?" Patrick turned around and took hold of a hand each of the younger kids.

"Later. You gotta tell me the whole story, though!" Liss called over her shoulder as she walked on ahead to the bus stop.

Both Paul and Jenni seemed tense and the bus stop wasn't far so Patrick didn't beat around the bush.

"Is something happening on the school bus that Liss doesn't know about?" Jenni nodded miserably.

"There's a mean girl. On the bus."

"Who is she? What does she do?"

"She's in my year, but not in my class. She does this," Paul was still lisping heavily but didn't seem to mind so much in front of Patrick and his sister. He let go Patrick's hand and pushed his fingers at the corners of his eyes. Patrick understood immediately the universal sign for mocking the features of an Asian kid.

"Did you tell Mrs. Brodie?"

"She said to ignore it," said Jenni. "She said there are always bullies and we shouldn't let them know we're upset." Patrick thought for a moment.

"What about your teachers?"

"She never does it when there's grown-ups around. She only does it on the bus or in recess when no-one's looking."

"Did you tell her not to do it?" Jenni and Paul both shook their heads looking apprehensive.

"Well that's the next thing to do. If you want someone to back off, you need to tell them." Their apprehension increased. Patrick's mind settled briefly on Liss yesterday before he continued. "What I'm going to teach you now, it's special gypsy magic, like a superpower. That's why you can't use it to get back at them, or get them in trouble when they're not doing anything wrong, because superheroes only use their powers for good, right?" This got wide-eyed nods of agreement. "So the only time you do this is when she starts picking on you. What's her name?" The Ng kids looked at each other and shrugged.

"Okay, it doesn't matter. There's different magic you use when you know their name, that's all. Are you ready for this? Here's what you do. Have either of you two got… A pointy finger?" He let go of their hands to point with both of his. Puzzled, first Paul then Jenny pointed theirs.

"Great! Now, how good are you at pointing with them?" He suddenly crossed his arms across his chest and pointed at both Jenni and Paul with the opposite hand. "See, I'm an expert, it's not easy to do two at once like this." Both Paul and Jenny laughed, pointing back at Patrick. "Oh, you guys are naturals! Okay, here's the complicated bit. You need to point at the mean girl. Pretend Liss is the mean girl. Ready? One, two, three!" Laughing again, they all pointed at Liss. "Now I want you practice saying 'back off'. Okay? One, two, three, Back off!" Only Patrick said it. He looked at them. "No, see, the _pointing_ was the complicated bit, the _words_ are easy. You first, Jenni."

"Back off."

"Louder!"

"Back Off!"

"Now really shout it!"

"BACK OFF!" Jenni didn't really have a loud voice but she'd done her best and it hadn't been a bad effort.

"Fantastic! Now you Paul, you can do it. No esses in 'back off,'" he added.

"BACK OFF!"

"Wow," Patrick gasped, "Where did that come from? You're a natural at that too! You could be an announcer at baseball games with that voice! Okay, now we need to do it together. Strength in numbers. If she does it when you're both there, you both have to do this together. One, two, three–"

"BACK OFF!" they chorused, grinning.

"And again!"

"BACK OFF!"

"Again!"

"BACK OFF!"

"Perfect! Now we need to mix that with the complicated pointing." Jenni gave a small giggle. "Are you ready to try this? Okay? Let's do this! One, two, three–"

"BACK OFF!"

"Woah," Patrick pantomimed clutching at his heart in mock terror, "that is some powerful magic! Now, pretend I'm the mean girl. I'm gonna come up to you, and you're going to point and shout, okay? There's no one-two-three now, this is _advanced_ magic, you have to make sure you can get the timing right just by pointing. You guy ready for this?" They definitely were, Paul even jumping up and down a little in excitement. They had reached the bus stop now so Patrick approached a few times from different directions. Liss and the older kids just stared but two other younger kids arrived at the bus stop in time to join in the game, all pointing and shouting at Patrick as he approached. The bus turned a corner and came into view down the street.

"You coming with us?" Jenni suddenly asked. Patrick knelt down on one knee so he was eye to eye with her.

"No sweetie, I don't start school until Monday. I'm meeting with my social worker today. But… You guys don't need me. You're both experts now at gypsy magic." Jenni stopped smiling.

"We're not allowed to shout on the bus. It's against the rules." Paul whispered in his ear.

"Okay." Patrick thought for a second. "What's the name of your bus driver?"

"Mr. Petersen."

"Right. I'll have a word with Mr. Petersen when the bus gets here, explain about the magic, then you won't get into trouble if you shout at the mean girl." Both Paul and Jenni still looked unsure so Patrick said quietly, "You guys can do this." He pointed his fingers in both hands again and gently touched both their index fingers. "It's your superpower now too, not just mine, and you're even stronger together. You don't need me any more, you got the power inside you to make mean kids stop even when I'm not around. Mean kids don't want everyone to know they're being mean, that's how this magic works."

The bus had pulled up now, they were the last to get on. Patrick had a quiet word with the driver, flashed a 'thumbs up' sign at the Ngs followed by pointing a finger at them, then got off the bus. He waved as they drove off, then took a deep breath. He'd gotten a sincere apology out of Brodie. Time to see how guilty he could make Sally Brodie feel about last night.


	6. Chapter 6

Stella Lazczyck had arrived early, just as Patrick was returning from the bus stop, so Sally still didn't get a chance to talk with him. The meeting with Lazczyck turned into sheer torture for Sally. Patrick had such an easy-going, friendly manner with her that it couldn't but highlight his stiff uncomfortable formality towards Sally herself. Patrick was a skilled storyteller and he lost no time in telling the events of last night in all their gory detail, turning it into a comical farce of theatrical proportions. Lazczyck in turn had warmed to the boy, whose initial shyness and reserve with her had clearly worn off, and had proven to be quite the audience. She had nodded sympathetically at his 'missed bus', stared open-mouthed at Sally when he mentioned the idea of calling the Sheriff, had actually chuckled at the part where Patrick asked for his lawyer and was suitably amazed at Patrick's description of Taylor's performance. Sally's interruptions and explanations in contrast had been embarrassed, poorly-explained and hesitant, making her and Will's behavior the previous night seem even more ridiculous.

When Patrick casually mentioned heading back to Stoney Ridge again today he had looked Sally in the eye for the first time, daring her to say he was grounded. Both she and Will had forgotten his tardiness last night the moment the first thousand-dollar bundle had emerged from his pocket so nothing had been mentioned. Quietly fuming, feeling outmaneuvered, Sally remained silent. When he'd gone on to ask Lazczyck about her great-uncle who was a priest she'd happily spent the rest of the time going into her family stories, Father Lazczyck having been quite a character in Carson Springs' recent history. Patrick was, if anything, an even more appreciative audience. Lazczyck happily added Taylor to the school enrolment forms she had brought with her and if she had no time to chat with her friend Sally during this visit, well, she'd catch up properly next time she dropped round.

As soon as Lazczyck had left Sally, still burning with embarrassment, rounded on Patrick intending to rectify the oversight and ground him.

"Patrick–" she began rather too loudly, only for her voice to die in her throat. The boy had visibly shrunk away from her as she turned, as if he was expecting shouting or even violence. Before she could recover from the shock of being confronted with his newly-fearful attitude he stepped back towards the stairs as though preparing to flee.

"Shall I go get my jacket, Mrs. Brodie?" His voice and body language were so wary now, as if he feared he had gone way too far simply by chatting with Stella like he had. Sally suddenly remembered what he had said about how hot-tempered his aunt was, how no-one wanted to be on the receiving end of her telling them off. She wondered how often Patrick had indeed been on the receiving end of Lily's fury and felt terribly guilty that she seemed to have been heading down the same path, especially after accusing him of stealing last night.

"Jacket?"

"Yes ma'am, to go to the bicycle shop? You said we'd go after Ms. Lazczyck's visit? Are we still going, Mrs. Brodie?" Patrick sounded like he feared it might no longer be the case. The remaining shreds of Sally's irritation evaporated and she felt dreadful about having let it get the better of her. The boy had simply been friendlier with his social worker than with her. After last night it was understandable – and now she'd given him even more reason. Her shame deepened. She had always thought of herself as a good mom, dammit! Patrick was only thirteen! What was wrong with her?

"Definitely still okay, Patrick." Sally managed a bright smile that she hoped was reassuring. "You go get your jacket, I'll get the car out."

Patrick hid his grin until he was safely in his room. After the provocation of his storytelling he had feared his 'scared' act might be a little over the top but apparently not, Sally had looked mortified down there at the bottom of the stairs. Good! She deserved it, they both did. This morning he'd succeeded in planting doubt into the mind of William Brodie, a man who seemingly had entertained nothing but moral certainties for decades, then made him want to give Patrick the benefit of that doubt. Now he had Sally, the quintessential mom, guiltily questioning whether she had any real talents in that direction after all. He just needed to steer her towards the idea that she could prove to herself she was a good mom by trusting him. He grabbed his jacket, heard his spare change in his pockets and his grin widened for a second. One quarter was real but the other two were double-sided, one heads on both sides and the other tails. He picked out the real quarter, took a deep breath, checked in the mirror that he did indeed look as wary as he felt, then headed back downstairs.

They drove in silence for the first few minutes, Sally wondering how to start the conversation she'd been failing to have with Patrick since breakfast and wishing she felt less awkward around him. Patrick in the meantime was playing with the three coins in his left hand, always concealing two and producing heads, tails or the genuine quarter at will, a memory exercise as well as improving his dexterity and ability to identify each by touch alone. He'd long ago mastered doing two things at once, had now reached the stage where doing three was relaxing rather than something he needed to concentrate on, even if he wasn't using his dominant hand. Suddenly he spoke.

"I talked with Mr. Brodie this morning, ma'am. About last night. He said he'd try to give me the benefit of the doubt in future."

"Good. That's good. I'm glad you and Will had a chat."

"You were wondering how I felt about what happened last night, Mrs. Brodie. I think I feel… betrayed." Sally felt the word settle like lead in the pit of her stomach. Of course the boy would feel like that, they had accused him of theft, for heaven's sake, threatened to call the Sheriff! "Mr. Brodie was determined to believe the worst of me and you… let him. You let him think those things, Mrs. Brodie." Patrick paused briefly. Sally felt unable to breathe. "I know a lot of people don't like gypsies much but you agreed to take me on. Yesterday I even thought maybe you liked me. I guess it didn't say I was a gypsy on my record, they kinda deceived you there, but that wasn't my doing. I didn't deceive anyone, I told Liss, told you, I didn't try to pretend I was something I wasn't. The light's green now, ma'am." It took Sally a moment to realize that they were indeed stopped in front of a green light. She drew a deep breath and set off again.

"I'm really sorry, Patrick. I do like you, I think you're kind and helpful–"

"Just not trustworthy." It was Sally's turn to open and close her mouth as she struggled to find something to say.

"I… I guess we've never had a foster child with a background like yours before," she eventually said, weakly. "Everything you said, well, it seemed so far-fetched. You have a lot more responsibilities at your age than any child I ever met."

Patrick smiled at her for the first time that day, a faint, wry smile. "Most people think gypsies have no responsibilities."

"I suppose that's true."

"To me it's just my life, it's normal." Patrick paused again. "Am I allowed to keep going back to Stoney Ridge? I mean, I still have responsibilities there. I'm supposed to hand over the RV to the Turners today."

"Oh!" Of course he couldn't be grounded, she had forgotten about the rental contract. Didn't he have some kind of meeting with the boss as well? "Patrick, you don't have to keep asking whether you're allowed–"

"I think I do, Mrs. Brodie. I think if last night proved anything it's that my 'normal' isn't the same as yours. I can't assume anything, can I? How do I know something that's normal to me won't have you calling the Sheriff?"

"I don't think we'll be doing anything like that." Sally parked up outside the bicycle shop.

"'Forgive me if I don't take your word for it.'" It took Sally a few seconds to realize Patrick was quoting her husband's words back at her. She closed her eyes for a moment. Dear God, what a mess! "How's this going to work, Mrs. Brodie?" Patrick continued relentlessly. "You don't trust me, but you didn't ask Ms. Lazczyck to take me away with her today. Why not?"

"We – we both want you to stay with us, Patrick. Will and I talked about it last night, we don't want Stella to look for another foster home for you, so long as you still, well, still want to live with us. We'd really like to start over."

"What else?"

"We'd like to understand more about–"

"Do you really think I want to tell you _anything_ else about me after last night?" Patrick had been speaking conversationally but this came out low, fast, venomous. Sally looked shocked and upset.

"What do you want from us, Patrick? We said sorry, we _are_ sorry. We'd like to start over, make this work. Do you want to go to a new family?"

Patrick thought about this before he replied. He had already started to make allies in Liss and the Ng kids, he had messed with Brodie's head enough to plant a few seeds of self-doubt there and he seemed to have Sally where he wanted her, asking him what he wanted rather than telling him what he had to do. "No. I don't want to move somewhere else, Mrs. Brodie. Not if you really want me to stay here. I want… I want you to trust me rather than assuming I'm lying, or up to no good. I want a ten o'clock curfew, not nine. I want to have the use of your son's old bicycle, so I don't have to rely on buses. I want to be able to go see my friends in Stoney Ridge. I want to visit Dad in County Jail, I'm allowed to go on Saturdays but I need to be accompanied by an adult. And I don't want to go to middle school. I don't think formal schooling is a good option for me any more."

"We will trust you, Patrick, I do trust you but school is not optional," Sally said with less hesitation than Patrick had hoped. "Every child we've looked after wanted to skip school, even our own. I'll tell you what I always say: education is too important. You'll thank me later, trust me."

Trust you, Patrick thought. It was only an expression, she hadn't realized what she said. He took a deep breath and exhaled before continuing. "I've been home schooled for two years now, Mrs. Brodie. I only ever went to elementary school, never middle or junior high. I'm pretty good at teaching myself."

"Oh! Well. I guess you've got a stronger argument than most children," Her expression hardened, "but I'm no teacher so you need to go to school. Getting an education is non-negotiable. This isn't about trust, Patrick, it's about your future. School and qualifications are the keys to a better future. You're going to school." Sally looked at him a little nervously but she also looked determined. Well, Patrick thought, that had always been a long shot, a diversion away from the curfew question. He needed a later curfew. Sally continued, "I'm sure we can take you to see your dad on Saturdays except when we've arranged something else beforehand. We already agreed to the bicycle, that's why we're here. I'm not sure we can agree to a later curfew–"

"Nine is too early, ma'am. It was my meeting with the carnival bosses last night that made me miss the bus back. I still have things I need to sort out and doing business in the evenings is my kind of normal. I think ten o'clock in my world is earlier than it is in yours, somehow."

"We set that curfew because of school, it's too important–"

"I'll still be fine for school, Mrs. Brodie. Later really is normal for me. I'll get enough sleep to concentrate in school, if that's what's bothering you."

"Okay, Patrick, I know you're good at concentrating. So long as your homework gets done before you go out, your school work doesn't suffer and you promise me that you'll stick to ten o'clock when you do go out then... I think we can agree to that."

Patrick paused at her second faux pas in as many minutes. What is wrong with her? He muttered something that sounded like "Promise? Really?" then walked inside the shop. He'd said it so quietly Sally couldn't be sure she'd heard him and by the time she followed him into the shop he was already chatting animatedly with the assistant, enthusiastically examining tires and the other bike parts.

* * *

After their shopping trip Patrick cautiously asked Sally whether they could go to Taylor's office and Sally had driven him there when they left the bicycle shop. Taylor wasn't there but his secretary was, with an envelope addressed to Patrick. He'd offered to show her the contents and smiled to himself as he watched her reactions. She'd wanted to see, nosy and controlling as ever. Then she'd realized how mistrustful it would look and stifled her first impulse.

Back at the Brodie house Sally prepared sandwiches for their lunch while Patrick fitted the new tires and inner tubes to the bicycle wheels. Patrick deliberately left the envelope in the kitchen while he was outside working on the bike but when he came back inside it looked like she'd managed to resist the temptation and leave it untouched. She kept glancing at it over lunch, which had been a tense affair for Sally at least, Patrick politely asking small-talk questions about the weather forecast and the usual weekend occupations of the household, Sally answering distractedly. Afterwards he asked if he could get the bus to Stoney Ridge. Sally had wanted to drive him there so she haggled with him until he agreed to be back at the Brodies' house in time for dinner, and to stay in that evening.

On the bus, finally leaving behind the woman he was increasingly thinking of as his keeper, Patrick took a deep breath. Okay, motivation. A lot of Sally's behavior was about being in control rather than specifically lacking trust in him, probably rooted in the loneliness he'd spotted in her on day one. She'd become a mom very young, if the family photos on display in the house were anything to go by. She'd been a mom for a very long time, judging by the apparent age gaps between her children. Then even before the last of her own kids had flown the nest she'd started fostering. She didn't have anything else to do with her life, no secret ambitions she longed to fulfill. Liss didn't have to be afraid about being moved again, Sally might not adopt her but she'd see her through to adulthood he was sure. The Ng kids were long-termers too, he didn't know anything about their history but Jenni had looked maybe three in the youngest photo of them that he'd seen. Lazczyck must have had to persuade Sally and Will to take him because he was short-term. She'd refrained from asking him questions all day but he didn't expect that to last.

The trailer park hove into view. Dinner time was six, after sundown at this time of year but not by much. He'd ask Mick Turner to give him a lift back, he wouldn't be able to pull the 'missed bus' excuse too often and for the next few days he didn't want to give the Brodies any cause to suspect they hadn't entirely misjudged him. At the trailer park he was a little disappointed not to see any of the gang as he walked through it. He found Pete, Josh and Mick Turner on the waste ground behind their trailer, working on erecting the big tent for the wedding next week. Pete and Josh had waved a greeting but were obviously determined to have the tent up before the predicted rain tomorrow. Mick headed over.

"There y'are, young Patrick Jane! I was starting to think you'd forgotten to come over today. Katy wanted me to say thanks again for all this, she would have said it herself but she's out with her Ma buying wedding things this afternoon. We would have had to wait until next April otherwise and though my lady's many things, patient isn't one of them." Mick's rolling Irish accent and friendly words belied the scrutiny of his eyes. Patrick hadn't had much to do with Mick but he'd always been friendly enough up to now.

"Hey Mick! I have the contract just here. You'll want to read it over, I expect." Mick came up and loomed over Patrick. He wasn't as big as Josh or Pete Barsocky but he didn't have to be, Patrick was a small lad and Mick Turner had been hauling big iron all season. He was strong, tough-looking and had something of a reputation for being a hard man even among the other crewmen.

"Is this really necessary, Paddy? I don't mean to be… awkward… but I don't like putting my name to anything I don't have to, if y'understand me." Again Mick's stance wasn't really threatening, but it was intimidating and was meant to be.

Patrick thought quickly. He was sure Mick was just trying it on, he wasn't going to beat him up, not with his future in-laws standing over there. The crewmen could get… rowdy… but they had a rough code of honor, of sorts. Everyone on the lot looked out for the Carny kids, a slap around the ear from one of the adults wasn't unheard of but crewmen knew their own strength, they generally wouldn't hit a child. Well, maybe for pick-pocketing their pack of cigarettes but not just for asking them to sign a contract. Patrick looked contrite but didn't back away.

"Mick, I'm really sorry but you have to sign if you want the RV. Dad's in jail and I could get into that kind of trouble too, the lawyer said, if I don't do things by the book. Foster care's bad enough, I've no wish to see the inside of Juvenile Hall. You don't have to sign the contract, but I can't let you have the RV without your signature." He paused just for a beat. "I've known Katy all my life, she's babysat for me more times than I can recall. As you say, not a lady whose patience you'd want to test, never has been." This little speech earned him a look of grudging respect from Mick. He held out his hand and Patrick handed over the contract. Mick carefully read every word but Taylor had kept things simple, it was free of the boilerplate and small print beloved of car hire companies. He signed both copies, handed them back to Patrick who put one copy back in the envelope then held it up. "I'll need the rental money now, Mick, if we're going to get the oil changed this afternoon."

Mick broke into a grin. The worst part of the day was over as far as he was concerned. A signature on an official document wasn't so bad when the other party was just another Carny lad, not the government as had been the case with the marriage license that morning. And the boy has some balls, he'd give him that. He wasn't sure he'd have held his ground like that against a crewman when he was just thirteen.

"Okay, Paddy! Jesus, Mary and Joseph, even American kids are all about business, huh?" Mick was still grinning as he said this, digging a fat roll of cash from his pocket and peeling off the twenties.

"What can I say, Mick? Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly. We gotta get over to Big Dave's Lube 'n' Tube if we're gonna get her serviced today." Patrick carefully re-counted the cash he'd just seen being counted out in front of him. He hadn't expected Mick to try to cheat him out of anything but he knew better than to just take the cash without counting. He didn't want to earn a reputation for being a fool. Mick watched him patiently, as far as he was concerned this was business as usual. Yup, it was still a full grand. Patrick rolled up the cash and fixed it with an elastic band of his own before pocketing it. "Would you drive me back to – to the place I'm staying afterwards?" Damn, he'd have to get used to calling it his foster home, calling them foster parents at some point. Not today, though.

"Sure, Paddy, I wouldn't leave a man stranded in town."

* * *

Molly O'Reilly watched appreciatively as the young man climbed down from the motor home and walked over to the office. His sleeveless t-shirt showed he was tanned and well-muscled without being all Schwarzenegger about it, his light brown hair a little sun-bleached and his chin covered with a roguish three-day stubble. He looked a little like a younger Clint Eastwood, she thought, from the early spaghetti western days. Her face fell as his blond son joined him – but no, the man wasn't old enough to have a son who looked about ten or eleven. His little brother, maybe, along for the ride. She smiled appreciatively at the movement of his muscles when he pulled open the door and entered the small office. The boy suddenly turned to his companion for a moment.

"Mick!" The man turned and Patrick lowered his voice. "She likes what she's looking at, man! See if you can get me a discount!"

"What? I'm practically a married man!" Mick whispered back.

"C'mon, Mick, where's the harm? Just hit her with a little Irish charm, maybe lean over the desk. Like you said, you won't be doing this again once you're married." Patrick's eyes positively twinkled with mischief.

"No way!"

"You telling me you got no moves no more, man?" Patrick challenged. Wordlessly Mick span round, gave Molly a wide smile and casually leaned up one elbow on the high counter, as though he had no idea this put his tanned bicep in front of her face. Patrick quietly sat down in the corner.

"Hello there… Molly," Mick began, slightly exaggerating his accent, Looking for just a second at the name tag pinned next to her cleavage then fixing his clear, bright blue eyes on hers, "It's a service for the old RV that we're wanting today, can you tell me how much that would be now?

"Here's our price list, Mr…?"

"Michael Turner. Call me Mick," he said, smiling and giving her something akin to half a wink, really just a slight crinkling of his right eye. He glanced over the numbers, then leaned conspiratorially across the counter, lowering his voice a fraction. "Would your man cast an eye underneath as well while he's at it, tell me if she needs any more work? I'd appreciate that."

"Hi Mick." She looked at Mick for a few seconds too long, letting her eyes slip along his naked arm and the contours of his chest before they came back to his eyes, flicked to his mouth once, twice. Patrick grinned, she couldn't be more obvious. He'd never thought of Mick as being especially good-looking but this woman seemed intent on teaching him how bad a judge he was of a man's looks. She suddenly realized she hadn't spoken, he'd asked her something but she had no idea what. "I'm sorry, could you say that again? I love your accent," she managed.

Mick chuckled. "For you, Molly, I would ask it a thousand times over." Molly blushed deeply but couldn't tear her eyes away. "I was hoping… your man there in the garage… could let me know… if the RV needed any more work." His words couldn't have been more functional but by the end Molly was almost panting in time to his pauses.

"We – we do a complimentary twenty-point vehicle check with every oil change."

"That sounds grand." Mick handed over the RV keys and Patrick could see, actually see, her shiver as Mick's fingers brushed her hand.

"Please take a seat." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. She stood up to take the keys through to the mechanics in the workshop but paused almost involuntarily, watching him walk over to where Patrick was sitting before she could move. "I'll just, I'll just take the keys through to the back."

"I feel like a whore in a knocking shop window," Mick murmured when she'd gone, rolling his eyes and shaking his head at a grinning Patrick.

"Tell me you're not loving the attention. Go on, just tell me and we can go wait in the ice cream parlor down the block from here."

"The woman must be nearly forty! She's practically undressing me with her eyes!"

"She's thirty-six. You're very good at this, Mick," Patrick complimented, noting that Mick hadn't in fact denied that he was enjoying the attention. "No cheesy lines, it's all in the way you speak and your body language."

"Your soul to the devil, Patrick Jane! What if I don't want her listening to my body?"

"See if you can get twenty percent off!" This was whispered very quickly as the door behind the counter was opening. Molly emerged.

"They're doing it straight away," she called over the counter, eyes fixed on Mick. "It'll be an hour for the service, then you can see if they find any other work you should get done."

Mick stood. "Would there be any possibility of something like a little discount, hmm? Maybe there's a coupon we could just pretend you've seen…?"

Molly was wishing she'd washed her hair that morning and put on a little more make-up. Was this guy really flirting with her or was it all in her head? The words were all business and it was hard to tell with his wonderful accent.

"…coupon?"

"Or perhaps you do a voucher?"

"We do have a voucher scheme for returning customers!" Molly was relieved she had another excuse to carry on talking to this guy, and she loved the way he was asking without wheedling. "You get twenty percent off your next visit if you bring the voucher."

"Well, Molly, do you think you might have it in you to pretend that… maybe… I'm a returning customer?"

Molly hesitated. It was strictly against the rules, not that she hadn't broken them in the past…

Another customer came in, fattish, baldish, fiftyish, and they fell silent. He glanced around, looked at Molly, decided she wasn't currently dealing with the other people in the room, walked up to the counter then started talking to her breasts.

"Excuse me, I was booked in for three o'clock but I was hoping you could fit me in earlier?"

"Just one moment, sir," Molly replied coldly, then called across to Mick.

"I'm sure we can do that for you, sir," she said with her brightest smile. "Will you be waiting here or coming back for your vehicle?"

Mick turned his back to her and gave Patrick a pleading look. At once Patrick stood.

"You did promise ice cream, uncle Mick." Patrick had done something to his voice, made himself sound younger, somehow. Mick turned back.

"Now who could break a promise to his own nephew?" Mick even managed to sound regretful. "We'll be back in an hour."

Outside, before Mick could say anything, Patrick announced, "There's a bar across the street where Dad went once while I went to the ice cream parlor."

"I could do with a beer after that," Mick agreed. "One hour?"

"One hour."

"Paddy – did you know that cougar was going to be there?" Suspicion and belated realization were finally creeping over Mick. Patrick grinned sheepishly.

"She's one of dad's. I wasn't sure if she had a thing for him or for Carnies in general. Guess we found out. Whoa, Mick, I didn't drop you in it!"

"Sure felt like that to me." The good humor had gone from Mick's face, replaced by a look that was rather menacing. Patrick took a step back, hands raised in a placatory gesture.

"Yeah, like you didn't look even a little bit threatening back at Stoney Ridge, not trying at all to make me back out of the contract, huh? That didn't deserve a little payback?"

Mick paused, then grinned. Patrick sighed in relief.

"Okay, we're even, kid. Hold on, if your dad only went to the bar one time…?"

"Oh yeah, exactly what you're thinking."

"Jesus! I don't want to know anything else about your dad's taste in women."

"Wish I didn't, either, Mick." They were opposite the bar now, the ice cream parlor was just a few stores further down the block on this side of the street. "One hour. Seeya back out here. And… Thanks, Mick. No hard feelings?"

"Nah," Mick grinned down at Patrick. "I couldn't hold a grudge against my own dear nephew now, could I? Man, I thought I'd kissed the Blarney stone but you musta fuckin' slept with it!"

* * *

The RV had needed a little additional work, not much but it had eaten up what was left of the afternoon – there wasn't time for him to go back to Stoney Ridge. He and Turner had gotten along just fine for the rest of the afternoon, Mick was a chatty guy and easy company, both had a fund of stories about their respective Carny scenes. Mick's were mostly from Ireland and the UK – he'd only been in the US for a year – which were pleasingly exotic to Patrick's ears, as was the man's turn of phrase. Mick Turner was then true to his word, dropping Patrick back at the Brodie house and even swinging by Taylor's office beforehand to let him drop off the contract and the remainder of the rental money.

* * *

Jenni and Paul were really excited over dinner, telling him the story of how the magic had worked. Mean Girl hadn't tried anything on the bus to school, but had started up again on the bus back. When Jenni and Paul shouted Mr. Petersen had stopped the bus and come down the aisle. Mean Girl was expecting him to tell them off for shouting, so she'd gotten the shock of her life when he'd told her off for picking on them and threatened to throw her off the bus if she did it again. Patrick was impressed: his old school bus driver at elementary had seemed to hate kids. Friday was family night at the Brodie house, a novel experience for Patrick who joined in enthusiastically with the card and board games until Jenni and Paul's bedtime at eight-thirty. Liss had finally managed to corner Patrick around nine to get the full story of last night from him, then Sally had called bedtime around ten.


	7. Chapter 7

Carson Springs City Library was an impressive building in the early morning light, with pale stone steps leading up to massive three-storey-high columns in the same pale stone forming a portico in front of the main doors. Patrick took the steps at a run like an eager young prince returning to his favorite palace. This was his domain, it was special to him and he loved everything about the place: the ornate Victorian tiled floor at the entrance, the high, decorated ceilings, every nook and cranny of the maze of rooms and offices on the upper floors. He'd been coming here since he was a toddler, visited nearly every day whenever they overwintered in Stoney Ridge. He knew every square inch of the place. The library held an extraordinary range of books for such a small city, the result of bequests over the years from long-forgotten city luminaries and housed the city archives on the top floor, the perfect place to tuck himself away when he needed privacy. He cast an indulgent eye around to see what changes had taken place over the summer.

It looked like the biggest change was among the library employees. Old Mrs. Beyman wasn't in her usual spot behind the counter. A young guy was there instead, holding a pen and surrounded by open books and pieces of paper. He wasn't currently writing, instead he absently twirled the pen around his fingers with a rolling motion as if he was twirling a baton. Patrick liked that – it was the same movement he had learned for twirling quarters around his fingers, he'd started with pens too, easier as they had the length and momentum to help prevent him dropping them so often while his fingers learned the movements. He sauntered over to the counter and the guy looked up, mid-twirl.

"Excuse me, I need to renew my library card," said Patrick quietly, as befitted the library, not disturbing the handful of other early-morning library users. He held up a battered, dog-eared piece of cardboard. The guy behind the desk grinned in a friendly manner.

"Got some use out of that, hey? I haven't seen you here before, " the guy continued conversationally, using what was obviously his customary library voice as well, low and confidential.

"I've been coming here since I was a little kid and I haven't seen you before either. Where's Mrs. Beyman?"

"She retired back in June. Mrs. Leeming's the new librarian now but she only works weekdays. I'm Zack, the Saturday guy. Here, let me do a new card for ya." The young man took Patrick's old card and started digging into a drawer under the counter for a replacement.

Patrick took the opportunity to scrutinize the new guy's books and papers. Zack seemed to be a law student who was around four sides of paper into some kind of written work – an essay? Something that looked very much like a plan was scribbled untidily across another two sheets of paper, with much crossing out and arrows pointing from one point to another. Patrick had met students but never seen one up close when doing student work. He took a curious look at the plan then at the final essay, written much neater, the handwriting oozing confident assurance. Yeah, that was a good idea, he'd borrow that one. Writing anything would be easier if all the messy thoughts and ideas were straightened out in a plan first. If you were a student then working part-time in a library made sense too, it would provide plenty of quiet time to do homework. Do they call it 'homework' at college?

"Is it still called 'homework' when you're at college?" Patrick voiced his thoughts. Zack glanced up at the boy, seeing only a curious expression on his face, then his eyes wandered to the mess he had created on the counter top. He grinned again.

"Second year at law school. I graduated from college over a year ago. This is an essay about case law. I guess we call it 'coursework' rather than 'homework'. Or just 'work', really. It's what students do."

"You don't get paid for it."

"Oh, lawyers get paid plenty," the grin now was a little condescending.

"Students don't."

"Two more years," Zack sighed. "That's why I work here on Saturdays. My dad's a lawyer, he was prepared to pay all my school fees so long as I went to law school after college. He put my brother through law school, too. Andy got a job in LA after he graduated, started on thirty-two thousand a year."

Patrick gave a low whistle. "Impressive." He'd thought the eight grand he and his dad had earned by the end of this season was pretty good.

"Yeah, he's working in corporate law down there. Most law graduates would start on less but Andy graduated _summa cum laude_, top of the class, got snapped up by one of the top law firms in the state. My brilliant big brother." These words sounded bitter, the guy softened them with a low chuckle. "I'm pleased for him, I guess, but I'm not sure I want to follow in his footsteps. Or Dad's."

"You don't want to earn big bucks?" Patrick sounded skeptical.

"I want to earn bigger bucks," Zack grinned again. "Show business!" Patrick suppressed his own grin. Yeah, he and his dad were really earning the big bucks in show business.

"What do you do?"

"Magic. I do close-up magic at corporate gigs a couple of nights a week at the moment, trade award shows, company events, things like that. But that's just pocket-money to keep my hand in, I have plans. Las Vegas awaits! Sigfried and Roy can hand over their magic wands to me, baby!" The young man made an exaggerated wave of an invisible magic wand and they both chuckled quietly.

"Go on then, show me a magic trick, Zack." The guy looked curiously at Patrick, the kid was smiling but there was something of a challenge in the way he said 'show me'. Patrick's expression was also a little unnerving, he felt he was being sized up by this kid. Inexplicably he felt like he did just before one of his corporate gigs. He wanted to impress the kid and he didn't entirely understand why.

He started by pulling Patrick's new library card from Patrick's ear before giving it him, just to test the waters. Patrick simply smiled politely, pocketed the card and looked expectant. The guy took a quarter out of his pocket, made it disappear in his hands then reappear in increasingly improbable places. This got a nod of approval. He did a few more coin tricks then pulled out a pack of cards from his pocket, running through a few tricks of the 'pick a card' variety.

"Yeah, pretty good," Patrick said in an offhand manner when the guy was done. Zack felt damned with faint praise, a feeling that intensified as Patrick went on. "I've seen worse. I went to this kid's birthday party one time, the entertainment was a clown that did magic tricks. Badly. I mean, scraping the barrel badly, not funny-badly. You were much better than him."

"Gee thanks," Zack retorted. "You think seeing one bad magic show makes you some kind of expert, kid?"

"Oh no." Patrick had pulled his own quarter out of his pocket, was twirling it in the fingers of his left hand like Zack had twirled his pen. "Not an expert." His eyes glittered as he flipped the coin high into the air – and it disappeared. "Not by any means." He looked into Zack's eyes then pointed to his breast pocket. Zack fished the quarter out. "Just a dabbler really." Patrick was grinning now.

"Oh, what we have here, my friends, is a ringer. Mr. Patrick Jane, ladies and gentlemen," Zack said, pointing an arm towards Patrick with a rueful chuckle as if he was a theater MC introducing him on stage to an imaginary audience, taking Patrick's prank with great good humor.

"Sorry dude, I couldn't resist."

"Don't be sorry, I walked into that one. You're pretty good yourself. I might steal that last coin flip trick of yours."

"Be my guest, it's not like I invented it. You just need to make sure you pick your marks really early, well before your show begins. And be prepared to give away a lot of quarters," Patrick added pointedly. Zack wordlessly handed the quarter back to Patrick, who started twirling it again.

"You don't see many left-handed magicians," Zack went on conversationally.

"Oh, I'm not, I'm just practicing with my left at the moment," Patrick replied, flipping the coin, catching it with his right, twirling it even faster in that hand before flipping it back to his left. In response to Zack's questioning look he shrugged. "My uncle broke three fingers on his right hand a few years ago, couldn't work at all for three months and it took six months before he got full use of his hand back. I decided I wouldn't ever let that happen to me. I can do pretty much everything with both hands now, I can even write with my feet, though I need my hands to get the pen between my toes in the right way which kinda spoils things." He flipped and caught the quarter again with his left hand.

"You gonna be a magician when you grow up?" Patrick's expression didn't change.

"Meh. There's work at the bottom end, like that clown, but it's not well-paid. Further up the ladder, well, people just aren't that impressed with live magic shows any more. I think traditional magic acts are going the way of Vaudeville. People are too sophisticated to be impressed with some guy in a tuxedo and a frilly shirt these days, it's too old-fashioned. There's always space for something new if you're talented, but it needs to _be_ new, properly different. Even if it's just new ways of presenting old tricks, not necessarily new tricks." This little speech earned Patrick a very surprised look from Zack.

"Sounds like you've done some research."

Patrick shrugged. "You don't see magic so much on TV any more. If the format's too old even for TV then it needs something pretty special to get noticed. Sigfried and Roy do it by ramping up the glitz but there's only so far you can go in that direction. Penn and Teller are doing something new, a lot of what they do is real stunts, freak show stuff rather than magic tricks. They even explain how the trick works sometimes and they've got that silent gimmick as well. Something new."

"Yeah that's the real trick. Thinking of something new."

"At least if you finish school first you can always be a lawyer if things don't work out. You know, earning small change like your brother." This made Zack chuckle.

"Yeah, the smartest guy in the room should have a Plan B for his life."

"The smartest guy in the room?"

"It's kinda the magician's creed. Only the smartest guy in the room gets away with tricking everyone else in the room. Always thinking beforehand about what could happen, always having plans and contingency plans for what is happening, always taking a moment afterwards to learn from what happened. It's actually a pretty useful philosophy if I become a lawyer too. Lawyers need to behave like they're the smartest guy in the room, especially in court."

"Yeah, I can see that would be useful." Patrick was giving only a fraction of his attention to Zack now as the implications of what the guy had said exploded like fireworks in his imagination. He _liked_ the idea of being the smartest guy in the room. He was less interested in magic than in the psychic business, especially after he read that book by James Randolph about Yuri Weller*. It would be a useful philosophy for a psychic as well as a magician or a lawyer. People believed what they wanted to believe and once invested in that belief were often prepared to believe anything without question because who wants to shatter their own beliefs? It was no reason to be sloppy. He'd seen a lot of psychics – his dad included – who just phoned it in. Weller had underestimated Randolph but no one could say he wasn't fully committed to the psychic business. That was surely the difference between a roadside gig that barely paid the rent and celebrity clients who ended up making your reputation, making you rich. It applied to the cons as well, people didn't even look for a trick when they really, really wanted what you were selling but pulling them off without causing a mess still required smarts. There was no excuse for poor planning or failing to learn from mistakes.

He again recalled conning the grandma of that dying girl. He'd have happily taken her money in other circumstances. If he was more involved with the planning in future he could make sure he never again had to look into the eyes of a dying child while he told the lies that would make a con work. There were plenty of wealthy suckers out there without having to resort to that. Thinking lots of moves ahead and learning to consider all the possible outcomes would be very useful skills to develop, even if his dad thought he should stick with practicing what he already knew for now. His dad didn't always have a contingency plan, their Plan B often relied on the simple fact that they would be hard to track down once the carnival moved on. People could be unpredictable and again he wanted to learn to anticipate their reactions, this time not simply to avoid trouble but to improve the act, or maybe to run cleverer cons that didn't make him feel bad about himself. That would mean doing something like he had with Brodie yesterday, understanding someone's worldview as well as cold-reading them.

Where to start? Chess. He needed to improve his chess game, that would be a useful exercise in planning ahead and anticipating his opponents. He needed to read more about magic as well, not just how to do tricks but to understand how the old-time magicians invented, planned, anticipated. How their minds worked. Patrick sighed. So many books, so little time…

Zack could see Patrick's attention was wandering.

"Uh, is there anything else you need?" he asked.

"Yeah, do you have any biographies of magicians? You know, old ones like Houdini?" Zack looked at Patrick curiously. Kids didn't usually read biographies.

"Biographies are in room 2F upstairs, you might find something there."

"And books on chess. I can play, but I want to improve."

"Down here at the back, on those shelves there, section 794."

"Oh, and bicycle maintenance. I'm fixing up an old racing bike."

"That's a real eclectic mix you're interested in, kid." Patrick grinned, he liked the sound of that word. Eclectic, like quirky electricity in his head. Zack was still talking. "629, engineering, over in that corner. It's mostly car repairs but I think there used to be a couple of bicycle books there too."

"Thanks, Zack," Patrick said, holding out his hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

Zack chuckled. "Likewise, I think. You can take out up to twenty books on your card, at my discretion." That caught Patrick's attention.

"At your discretion? You think I'd steal them or what?" He had thought he'd made a good impression on this guy, would every adult in this benighted town assume he was a thief? The irony of this thought wasn't lost on him, coming as it did hot on the heels of his ideas about planning cons but that didn't diminish his irritation. Cons weren't theft, until the dying girl he'd mostly thought of them as… aggressively exaggerated advertising.

Zack looked shocked at Patrick's sudden anger.

"Whoa, hold your horses there, cowboy! That isn't what I said at all! You're on a juvenile ticket, okay? That's all. I'm supposed to stop you reading anything too adult. It usually means I have to make sure kids don't borrow Stephen King or George Herbert." Zack started smirking. "I guess if you're heading up to biographies it means no Casanova or Simone de Beauvoir."

Patrick looked abashed. "I'm sorry, dude. I guess I'm feeling a bit touchy today."

"Where did that come from? What happened to you, man?"

"Some... adults... people I only just met, nearly had me arrested by the Sheriff two days ago, thought I was a thief. They were mistaken and they said sorry but..." Patrick trailed off, sullen anger still suffusing his features.

"But it still bites that they thought that about you, huh? Ignore them. The world is full of the ignorant and stupid, my friend. You even get them at law school."

"They're... kinda... my new foster carers." Patrick didn't know why he would open up to this stranger but he'd already told the story to Lazczyck and Liss, it didn't seem so personal any more.

"Man, that sucks big time." Zack seemed to be genuinely sympathetic. "But hey! At least they apologized, right? They can't be all bad?"

"Yeah…" Patrick paused for a moment, then a smile ghosted his face. "You do realize I'll be looking up their biographies first now you've told me about them?"

"Huh?"

"Casanova and Simone de Beauvoir."

"So long as you don't try to borrow them," Zack grinned back.

Patrick didn't return to the counter until two hours later, with a bicycle maintenance book, three books on chess and two biographies, one indeed of Houdini and the other about the Fox sisters. Zack checked out all the books.

"So no Casanova hidden in your bag?" he grinned and winked at Patrick to show he wasn't being serious.

"That guy was a con-man!" Patrick's enthusiasm was infectious. "I thought he just, you know, chased after women. It turns out he's much more interesting than that!" Zack had to smile at Patrick's words.

"You might find the women more interesting as you grow older," he grinned at Patrick, who shook his head, ignoring this comment.

"I only got through the first bit. I'll be back Monday, though, to read some more."

"Don't let Mrs. Leeming catch you, she'll ban you from 2F if she thinks you're reading it." Zack gave Patrick a considering look. "Have you heard of speed-reading?"

"No, what's that?"

"Well, do you remember when you first started to read? You learned the letters and had to spell out a word in order to try reading it? Then the next big thing is syllables, then you start reading whole words at a time? Speed reading just takes it to the next level, reading more than one word at a time. The idea is that instead of looking at every word on a line your eyes stop at every other word, then every third word, and before you know it you've trained yourself to take in a whole line of text really fast just by looking once at the whole line, not reading every word separately. Just like you don't read every letter in a word separately any more. Speed reading. There's books on it – section 418. Somewhere on those shelves." Zack waved a hand over to the far wall.

"How come you know all the numbers? Did you learn the Dewey system off by heart?"

"No," Zack laughed, "whatever's in my future becoming a librarian definitely isn't it. No, it's just you picked things I was interested in too and the numbers were already in my head. I play chess, still read a lot of books on it. Dad recommended I learned speed reading the summer before I went to college and it's a big help now when I have to plow through stuff like this for an essay." He indicated the open books that were still littering the counter top. "And I fixed up my brother's old bike when I was a kid. Took me forever, I'm not really mechanically-minded. I had to keep renewing the bicycle maintenance book I borrowed."

"Back in a moment," Patrick replied, then he was gone. It really didn't take him long to return with a book.

"Can I take this one out as well?"

"Yup," replied Zack, "Up to twenty. You've got this little lot for two weeks. If you need them longer just come and renew them after school."

"I'll be back Monday," Patrick smiled, "To return these and read more Casanova."

"You read pretty fast already, then?"

"Yeah, but I never trained myself to do it. I'd like to speed up some more, if I can."

"It doesn't take long to learn the principles, but it does take some practice."

"Well, Zack," Patrick replied blandly, "I'm not afraid of putting in a little practice."

* * *

It was William Brodie, not Sally, who accompanied Patrick to the County Jail that afternoon. Patrick was speed-reading the book on speed-reading as they drove, and wished he knew the right word to describe what he was doing. It felt pleasingly appropriate, anyway, and meant he didn't have to hold any kind of conversation with William. The visitor car park was half full and there was a small queue to get into the prison. As they approached it Patrick realized he still had his roll of picks in his pocket, probably not the smartest thing he'd ever done. He looked up at William.

"Mr. Brodie, sir, please can I have your car keys? I'd, um, like to put this back in the car." He held up his book.

"Sure, Patrick," replied William without hesitation, handing them over. "I'll keep our place in the queue, shall I?"

It took less than a minute to run back to the car, leave the picks in the passenger door pocket with the book on top of them, then run back. Brodie was only a little closer to the front of the queue. Patrick looked at the man for a moment before he handed the keys back. Had William been standing here wondering whether Patrick would steal his car? Had he remembered the lock picks in Patrick's pocket?

"You been here before?" Patrick asked conversationally. At Brodie's appalled expression he quickly added, "I meant have you been here as a visitor, brought foster kids here before?"

"No, Patrick, this is a first for me."

"Are you nervous?"

"A little. You?" When Patrick said nothing Brodie continued, "It's okay if you are." Patrick remained silent. "Just let me know if you want to go home."

"Mr. Brodie, I've been wanting to go home ever since I first came to live at your house. The State of California won't allow it."

Brodie again felt himself opening his mouth to say something then closing it before any words formed.

"Uh, I thought you told Sally that you wanted to stay with us?" he finally managed.

"She told me that you wanted me to stay."

"We do, Patrick. Look, we got off on the wrong foot. I'd like to start over, if that's possible."

"Yeah, she said that too. Will you be my chaperone for the whole visit?"

"Yes, if you want that. I'd be happy to stay."

"I think I'd like to speak with Dad alone, if that's allowed, sir. Would that be okay?"

"Yes, yes of course Patrick, I understand that you'd want to see your father without someone listening in." William felt a little foolish for assuming Patrick would want his support during the visit.

"Yes, I would."

William completed some paperwork then got a thorough frisking from the prison guard. Patrick's search was much more cursory. It looked like there weren't any other kids visiting today and Patrick got the impression that the guards didn't deal with many child visitors. They were shown into a large room with metal tables and stools which all seemed to be bolted to the floor, most of which were already occupied. Alex was already sitting at one of the tables near the door and he spotted Patrick first. He glanced at the guard then half-raised his hand in greeting.

"Mr. Brodie, this is my father, Mr. Alex Jane. Dad, this is my foster carer, Mr. William Brodie." Patrick remained stiffly formal, Alex gave him a brief, curious look then turned to William, all smiles.

"Mr. Brodie, I'm allowed to shake your hand – once – if, well, if you're prepared to shake mine." Alex was smiling hopefully at him, an open expression of humble gratitude on his face, holding out his hand. William hadn't known what to expect but it hadn't been this. The man was younger than Brodie had imagined, only in his thirties, and didn't look like a hardened criminal. He shook Alex's hand as Patrick sat down. "Thank you, sir, for taking Patrick into your home. I appreciate what you're doing for my boy." As William hesitated Patrick spoke.

"I asked Mr. Brodie if I could speak with you alone, Dad. Maybe you could come back later, Mr. Brodie?"

"Sure, Patrick, I'll head back out to the waiting room. You come fetch me when you're ready."

As soon as William was out of the room Alex's expression hardened. He glared at Patrick and growled, "What the hell d'you think you're doing, boy? Taylor said you were nearly arrested the other night! Now you come in here all stiff and ornery with the man who took you in! I never raised you to be stupid, Paddy."

"I'm not being stupid, Dad, he's the guy who was going to call the Sheriff–"

"Damn well looks stupid to me, Paddy! You think you're gonna get on his good side by acting like that? It's bad enough me being in jail but at least I can handle myself. You're out of my sight for three days and you forget every damn thing I ever told you! If you get sent to Juvie I'll need to come up with a solo act, 'cos you're gonna be in there learning to jack cars and shoot up heroin and you'll be no damn use to anyone when you get out! When Brodie gets back here you're gonna apologize to him before you leave."

"Yes, sir," Patrick lied.

"You brought any money with you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I need something in my commissary account. You can pay it in on your way out. Not too much, I'm gonna be moved after I'm sentenced next week, Taylor said. It's a bad idea anyway to have too much in the account, makes you a target. Fifteen bucks should be enough for now."

"Yes, sir."

Alex leaned back on his seat. "I'm getting twelve months," he said without preamble. "The guy I sold out wasn't the lead they were hoping for. Taylor thought I'd have just got three if he'd led them to the boss. Anyway. Twelve months. That kind of time gets me into the State system rather than staying here in County. They still give a day back for every day I stay out of trouble, so I'll be eligible for parole at the end of April if I can keep my nose clean. Taylor thinks he can get me a hearing as soon as I become eligible so I could be out in time for the start of next season, not too long afterwards anyway."

"Yes, sir." Patrick couldn't have been more expressionless.

"They only let minors visit once a month in the State Pen, it'll probably be Polsom or some new place in Bacaville. I'll write you via Taylor, no need for this Brodie to 'accidentally' open any mail from me, hey son?"

"No, sir."

Alex narrowed his eyes. "You being sullen with me, Paddy?"

"No, Dad," Patrick sighed.

"You better not be, boy." There was a long pause.

"The Turners rented our trailer, I put the nine hundred into Taylor's safe with the other–"

"We said a grand!"

"I got a grand! I had to get her serviced before Mick Turner would agree to sign a contract and one of the gaiters needed replacing, but–"

"Goddammit, Paddy–"

"Dad! He has to return her with a full tank of gas at the end of April. I got a discount on the service so we got the better end of that deal, especially if the price of gas goes up – and when does it ever come down?"

"You get a fuel deposit on that?"

"Uh, no–"

"Then we ain't gonna get a full tank when we get her back." Alex didn't swear at his son this time, the look of contempt he gave Patrick didn't need words. The silence extended again.

"You got the suit?" Patrick wanted to move the conversation on more than anything in the world.

"Yeah, it's a nice suit. At least you didn't screw that up."

"What day next week?" Patrick continued, "I mean for your sentencing?"

"Wednesday. Taylor says it can take up to a week to transfer after that, though they could take me straight to the State Pen from Court. I'll get him to let you know if I'll be here next week."

"Uh, Dad, I can't come next Saturday." At Alex's sharp look he added, "Katy Barsocky and Mick Turner are getting married in the Courthouse next Thursday, the party's on Saturday and I have to go. They're having it on the lot behind our pitch, in a big show tent. They're getting married because we rented them the RV, Dad, everyone's invited, I got asked by Josh and Maria, Katy and Mick and even Pete. They all want me to be there, I already said yes. I gotta go."

"Yeah. Yeah you do." Silence again. Eventually Alex let out a sigh. "Look son, I'm sorry if I've been in a bad mood today. Being in jail, you can't begin to imagine, it's… It affects you. Affects me. I know you thought you were doing what's best. I just… I need you to keep out of trouble, Paddy. I need you to keep visiting, if I'm going into the State system that won't be as often so I need you to write to me every week. I'll need regular money for the commissary. I'm relying on you, Paddy, please… don't let me down."

Patrick eyed his Dad, glad his anger seemed to have ebbed. Now he looked closer his dad looked smaller somehow, diminished, as though the prison fatigues had added ten years to his life. Patrick suddenly knew what his dad would look like in old age. If this was the old man up to his usual tricks, well, he still had some impressive moves. If he was being real with him… Patrick had always admired the way his dad had seemed to be something like a force of nature, always confident, invincible. The thought that Alex might be so badly affected by just three days in jail left him feeling chilly.

"I won't, Dad. I'll make sure I visit every month. I'll write."

Alex smiled at his son. "So what else you been up to?"

"I met with Pops and Billy Ruskin, if you're out on parole in time we got a place on the West Coast circuit next year, even if you have to start late. Pops said he wanted you back on his Midwest circuit once you've finished with parole, I said he'd have to take that up with you once you're out. I wasn't going to do anything about costumes for next season but I was thinking about replacing the three damaged panels on the big tent. We were talking about getting a new PA system, too, but I think we can get away with just a couple of new microphones."

"Yeah, that all sounds fine. See if you can get the panels patched rather than replacing them, it's cheaper."

"Okay dad."

"So what's Brodie like? It's not just him?"

"Him and his wife. They're rich, enough to own a big house in the suburbs anyway. She stays at home, a bit overprotective. He works, he's an accountant, doesn't run his own business. He's very straight-edge now, bit of a boy scout. Shady childhood though, which is why he jumped to all the wrong conclusions about me the other night. There's three other foster kids the Brodies look after. Two are little kids, the other girl's just a bit older than me."

"Don't give him the chance to jump to the right conclusions, Paddy. I mean it. I need you to stay out of trouble until I'm out of prison, especially if there's a girl your age in the house."

"Dammit, Dad–"

"I'm just sayin', Paddy. Temptation's more tempting if it's there all the time."

"Not tempted," Patrick replied firmly. "I told you before, lots of times, I'm not like you."

"Yet," Alex grinned back. "I recall you were partial to that little French girl last year. You had a few girlfriends this summer just gone, too."

"We never–"

"I know, son. You think I won't know when you finally pop that cherry? You're taking it easy, want to get to know your way around girls, you're not going to be rushed into anything you don't want to do and neither are they. I respect that. No, I do!" he protested at Patrick's skeptical look. "The world's different now than when I was your age. Scarier. Hell, if they'd had AIDS back in the Sixties I'd still be a virgin too!" Alex grinned. Patrick rolled his eyes. It took a lot to make him embarrassed these days – certainly not merely talking about sex with his dad. Partly that was to do with the lack of privacy afforded by life in a trailer, partly growing up in an environment full of utterly uninhibited adults and partly to do with becoming a showman. With their kind of act there was little room for embarrassment of any kind either in front of an audience or backstage when getting changed. He had felt a little embarrassed when people first spotted him with Marie-Thérèse two years ago, his first girlfriend, but he quickly got over it. He'd been more the cause of embarrassment in others since then. It was a useful skill.

"I'm still finding out how it all works outside the carnival. I won't underestimate them again."

"Make sure you don't." This silence was less brooding. "How about you, Paddy? Aside from that spot of bother that Taylor fixed, how're you doing? How's school?"

"I'll be starting school on Monday, Carson Springs Middle school, seventh grade. I guess I can write to let you know how it goes. The Brodies are letting me fix up an old bicycle that used to belong to their son, looked like it hadn't been ridden in ten years. It'll mean I won't need to take the bus to Stoney Ridge all the time. Uh, what else? I spent a bit of time with Mick Turner yesterday, he's good people, I think. Went to the library this morning, there's a new librarian, Mrs. Beyman retired."

"Library. You and your books." Alex shook his head indulgently. "You keeping up with the practice? Cold reading, hot reading?"

"And the rest," Patrick nodded. "School should be good for that, new people I can read, then get to know what I get wrong."

"Make sure you stay out of trouble."

The guard approached their table. "Time's up. This your son? You're allowed one intimate greeting with a close family member. That means you can give your dad a hug goodbye, kid," he added. Patrick cautiously headed around the table and tentatively gave his dad a quick hug. Alex, now playing 'remorseful but loving parent', hugged him back.

"Don't forget the commissary account, Paddy."

* * *

* "The Truth about Uri Geller", 1982, James Randi, ISBN: 9780879751999


	8. Chapter 8

"I'm not going to church and you can't make me. You were appointed my foster carers by the State of California which means you represent the government and the government can't make me go to church. That's against my First Amendment rights, I have freedom of religion." It was Sunday morning and Patrick Jane was looking stubborn and determined. However William had had this conversation numerous times over the years with his various charges, even if Patrick was the first to claim foster carers represented the government to their foster children. Brodie wondered briefly whether that was the case, then dismissed the thought: he wasn't going down that particular rabbit hole. Parents can make their kids go to church, and he was acting _in loco parentis._

"You don't have to _participate_, but you have to come along with us. As your foster parents we're not prepared to leave you home alone, it breaches our duty of care. Everyone else is going. Come on, Patrick, you might even enjoy it. Jenni and Paul like Sunday school, don't you?" Jenni's "Yes!" was enthusiastic, Paul's shrug less so.

"I don't have to participate, but I have to accompany you. Do I need to be in the same room?"

"Well, yes, we wouldn't leave you in the car, Patrick." William was curious where this was going.

"Is Sunday school in the same building as the main service?"

"No, it's in the hall next door to the church itself. What–"

"Could I stay in church with the adults rather than going to Sunday school with the other kids?"

"Uh, I guess so, but you have to sit with us, no sitting at the back and sneaking out."

"Okay." Patrick picked up three books. "I can read rather than participating, right?"

"That would be rather rude, Patrick."

"As rude as making me attend your church against my will, Will? Surely if I'm sitting with you I'm _participating_ unless I actively do something else."

William Brodie was almost becoming accustomed to having his assumptions challenged at some point in every conversation when talking to Patrick. There was no doubt about it, the boy had invented a whole new, ha, bookful of creative ways to be challenging. William both liked and disliked it. He hated being on the receiving end but there was no arguing that Patrick was quick thinking and witty.

"Come on, Patrick," William said in a resigned tone. "You can bring your books so long as you read quietly."

Patrick was very good at filtering out background noises, it was a trick he had learned when he was so young that he could barely remember learning it, hardly even thought of it as a skill any more. It was simply necessary if he was going to concentrate on anything with a busy carnival going on around him. He could simply allow the sounds to wash through him without paying too much attention. He still knew what was going on: at the carnival he could tell, for example, which rides had just stopped or started. He just didn't allow it to impinge on what he was doing.

The noisiest, most enthusiastic church service couldn't begin to rival a carnival in full swing. This one seemed to Patrick more like an itinerant preacher's revival tent than a Mass, the only two types of church that Patrick had experienced so far. The first time the Brodies stood to sing a hymn he had flinched at the movement so nearby, then that had been filtered out too. At some point the congregation decided it was time to wander about and shake hands or hug one another but his focus on his reading radiated a 'keep away' vibe that worked on most people. William found himself unwillingly deflecting the others on Patrick's behalf, inwardly resolving to persuade Patrick to 'not participate' in Sunday school next week if he possibly could. Patrick filtered out anyone who bypassed William to address him directly, whether in welcome or open disapproval. He'd absorbed the principles of speed-reading now, this was the practice and he was already pleased how much faster he was becoming while still following the text.

William Brodie had had time to brief Reverend Nigel Somers before the service began, warning him that Patrick was attending unwillingly and might try to provoke him. That had put him on his guard but hadn't prepared him for what was actually happening. He was good at dealing with heckling but this was surely the opposite of that, being ostentatiously ignored in such a way that he could almost feel it. He felt at first irritated, slowly became interested in spite of himself as the pages flicked more rapidly than he would have expected, then distracted as his eye was drawn back to the sight over and over. He could swear the boy was turning pages even faster the further he got through the book. He lost his sermon's thread twice and his scowls brought the boy to the attention of those few members of his congregation that hadn't already noticed Patrick, distracting them too. Patrick, meanwhile, continued serenely reading, utterly ignoring the service going on around him and the occasional hissed words of disapproval from those members of the congregation who were seated nearby.

By the end of the service both William and Sally were thoroughly embarrassed. Patrick became more aware of the disapproval of the congregation when Sally gently shook his shoulder and told him it was time to go but his response was to catch as many glaring eyes as he could and beam at them all. Far from feeling embarrassed Patrick almost felt at home, being the center of attention, working his audience, hostile or not. The Brodies tried to squeeze out of the church as quickly as possible without greeting the pastor at the exit but Patrick pushed into the front of the line as they passed, shook the man's hand warmly, not releasing it but instead speaking before the Reverend's sour expression could develop into caustic words.

"Thank you, Pastor Somers," he smiled at him. "It's refreshing to see a church extending its Christian charity so far as to welcome a non-believer like myself on a Sunday when they have to accompany some members of your congregation. Almost as if the Pharisee in your sermon today had, well, shaken the hand of the tax collector, just like you and me right now, instead of believing himself to be so much better than him. Your Jesus always did seem to prefer us sinners to the self-righteous." He didn't wait for a reply, just released the pastor's hand with one last beaming smile and let the Brodies hurry him outside. Sally was mortified as she headed over to the hall to pick up the others but as William got into his car with Patrick he found he was secretly pleased to have seen the boy in action without being his target for once.

Patrick finished his last book in the car on the way back from church. He gazed out of the window for a moment then spoke.

"May I work on the bike this afternoon, Mr. Brodie?"

William, unlike his wife, had given up trying to stop Patrick asking permission all the time. The boy would either get over this phase or not, he felt nothing he could do would influence that.

"Dinner's early on a Sunday, Patrick, but you'll still have a couple of hours to fix it up before we eat. You know where everything is by now. What have you got left to do?"

"New brake pads and cables, replace the gear cable, new handlebar tape, then adjusting and oiling everything to make sure it all works smoothly. Your wife bought me new lights for the front and back so I can cycle after dark, they need fitting then I think it's good to go."

"You think you'll be able to do it all this afternoon? Sally wanted me to check it over before you rode it and I have to fly down to LA first thing tomorrow morning. I'll be away until Thursday evening."

"I think so, sir, I've read the bicycle maintenance book and it seems easier than–" Patrick stopped abruptly.

"Easier than…?"

"Other mechanical things I've done in the past, sir." Patrick said it flatly and stared out of the passenger window, mentally kicking himself. William smiled but didn't push things. Patrick was a chatty boy, he'd surely come around eventually.

There was a long message from Pastor Somers on the answering machine when they got home. William sought out Patrick in the garage after listening to it, leaning casually at the entrance and watching him work on the brakes for a moment. The boy was quick with his hands as well as his words. The parts and tools were all laid out within reach around him and he barely glanced at them as he picked up what he needed, fixing the parts together with deft movements then returning the tool to its former place afterwards. After a moment and without looking up Patrick spoke.

"Am I allowed to keep working on this, Mr. Brodie? Like you said, I don't have very long."

"Yes, Patrick. You're good at that, fast. Methodical," he complimented.

"Thank you, sir. Time is money," Patrick replied enigmatically.

"Er, yes. I had a message from Reverend Somers on the ansafone. He's asked if you could attend Sunday school in future, it's, um, more appropriate for someone of your age." Patrick was prepared to bet the Reverend hadn't used those words. He smiled into the bicycle.

"Okay, Mr. Brodie," he said mildly. William was both surprised and suspicious, then felt bad that had been his initial reaction. The boy did deserve the benefit of the doubt. "I still don't _have_ to participate, do I?"

"I'll have a word with Jim Wilson, he heads the Sunday school," Brodie replied.

Patrick stood and looked him in the eye now. His smile looked positively angelic. "Thank you, Mr, Brodie, I'd appreciate that. Could you ask him if it would be okay for me to read instead?"

"Okay Patrick, I can ask, he doesn't have to agree to that though." Sunday School was arts and crafts for the youngsters, stories and quizzes for the middle group and discussions or other group work for the older kids. William had no idea how Jim would respond.

"That's okay, sir, so long as you ask him for me." William got the sinking feeling that Patrick already had a plan. Well, Jim had been a teacher all his working life, the man should be able to handle anything the boy came up with. He'd have a chat with him before next Sunday to warn him. "Was there anything else, sir?"

"No, Patrick."

"I'll get back to this, then?"

"Sure, you carry on." Patrick turned back to continue working on the bike. William watched for a short while as the boy finished fitting and adjusting the front brakes, working quickly and effectively, apparently utterly unselfconscious about being watched. William sighed then headed back inside.

Patrick had nearly finished when Sally called him into the house for a phone call shortly before their early Sunday dinner. He approached the phone in the kitchen curiously as Sally checked her pans then diplomatically left the room.

"Hello this is Patrick Jane."

"Hey, Paddy, it's me, Angela!" The sound of her voice made him feel suddenly and unexpectedly homesick.

"Hi Ani! It's great to hear your voice! How did you get this number?"

"I called Mr. Taylor, he gave it me. You need to write down our number so you can call me, too. It's 916-555-2864"

"Okay, I have it. Thanks, Ani. You might need to call me again a couple of times though, I never think to use a phone and there's no CB here."

"We got some news for you over the CB. Your aunt Lily just had a baby yesterday! A little girl, they're both doing fine. There weren't any other details."

"Aw, thanks for calling to let me know, Ani. I have a new baby cousin!" Patrick was grinning.

"So how're you settling in? You haven't been back here since Thursday."

Angela's question wiped the smile from his face. "No. Things have been kinda… busy. Did Taylor say anything?"

"He just gave me your number, said he thought calling you was a splendid idea so I thought I'd do something _splendid_." Angela said the word with relish. "Why, what's been happening?"

"Long story. Lot of long stories, in fact. Hey, can I come over tonight? I really miss you guys."

"That's another reason I called, I wanted to invite you over tonight. I got uncle Billy to rent a movie and I wanted you to watch it with us."

"You're up to something! What movie?"

"I'm not going to tell you, you'll have to come over and watch it."

"Okay." Patrick was intrigued, then he groaned. "Oh – I have to ask permission. Can you wait?"

"Sure, Paddy." She sounded amused.

Patrick left the handset on the kitchen counter and headed in to find the Brodies. Sally was in the room with the books. He glanced at the telephone there: if there were two phones in the house could someone listen in from the other one? He'd seen it on TV, had no idea if it was possible in real life.

"Mrs. Brodie, my friend from Stoney Ridge has rented a movie specially for me, am I allowed to go over there to see it after dinner?"

He could see Sally wanted to ask all about Angela – she had answered the phone, after all, would have known she was a girl – and which movie. He could almost hear her weighing up where 'concerned mom figure' might stray over the line to 'mistrustful keeper'. Patrick didn't want her to start questioning him so decided to try anticipating again. What would she worry about? Underage sex. This close to Halloween probably she'd worry about him watching horror movies.

"She's just a friend, I don't have a girlfriend. I think there'll be a gang of kids not just the two of us. I don't know what the movie is but I don't expect it's an R, most of our friends are younger than us. They were all watching The Goonies last Thursday. She mostly likes comedies and Disney and, um, Star Wars, I guess, not scary movies. I'll be back by ten." As Sally continued to hesitate he went on, "She's still on the phone, should I tell her I can't go?"

"No, Patrick, you go. Have fun. You haven't seen your friends over there for a few days."

Patrick headed back to the kitchen. "Hi Ani, yeah, they said I can come over."

"Oh you got their _permission_, then?" Angela teased.

"It's not funny." Patrick hadn't meant for it to come out as sharp as it did.

"Sorry, Paddy." His tone had surprised her, she sounded a little put out.

"No, I'm sorry. Look, I'll tell you all about it when I get there, okay? Gimme an hour or so."

"Okay…" Now Angela was sounding intrigued.

"I gotta go. Seeya later."

"Bye, Paddy."

Instead of heading back out Patrick headed inside. If he wanted to cycle over to Stoney Ridge he needed Brodie to approve his work.

* * *

After dinner it took Patrick around the same amount of time to cycle to Stoney Ridge as the bus took to drive there, but it was uphill: he would be faster getting back, he was sure. He rode straight in and round to the Ruskin house. Ani was sitting on the porch at the front but she jumped up, grinned and waved when she saw him.

"Hey, Paddy!"

Patrick dropped the bike and wordlessly ran up the steps to give her a hug. He had intended it to just be their usual hug of greeting but found himself gripping her shoulder like she was keeping him from drowning. She noticed, of course, held him for a long time before finally breaking away.

"What's the matter?"

Patrick just shook his head, finding to his horror that he was fighting back tears. Coming back here, seeing Ani sitting on the familiar porch had re-awoken the feeling of homesickness so acutely it felt like a giant fist was gripping his chest, squeezing the breath out of him.

Angela gave him another long hug, then murmured "C'mon, lets go through to the back." She led him through the house, pausing to swipe a couple of sodas from the fridge, then opened the door to the back porch. There was the familiar saggy old couch, the back yard before them dotted with a range of dismembered pieces of machinery. Patrick sat in his usual spot at one end of the couch, opened his can and took a long drink.

Angela sat at the other end and repeated, softly, "What's the matter, Paddy?"

Patrick shook his head gently but started talking. "I was late back on Thursday. Can you believe they wanted me to be back by nine? Pete Barsocky gave me a lift and I got back just before ten. The door was locked but they were waiting up for me. I explained about seeing the gang, having to sort things out with your uncle Billy and granddad but the next thing I know they're telling me to turn out my pockets. The only thing is, I had all our earnings from this season in my pockets, nearly eight grand. They see it and they freak out. I had Danny's old picks on me as well, they thought I'd been housebreaking or something, they were gonna call the Sheriff, have me arrested. In the end I got them to call Mr. Taylor instead and he was brilliant, he explained everything, got me off the hook. The worst thing was that whatever I said they didn't believe me. They just assumed I was a thief and a liar and nothing I said could change their minds. As soon as Taylor says the same thing they believe him."

"God, Paddy!" Angela sounded shocked.

"So Friday morning, he's unrepentant, 'I'd do it again,' he says, 'children shouldn't steal.' So I… you know… do my thing."

"Paddy!" Angela's tone was more disapproving, she knew how ruthless he could be if he felt wronged and she understood what he hadn't said as well as what he had. Patrick cut her off, he couldn't bear a reproach from her right now.

"Anyway, I find out why he was so suspicious. It's because of how shady he'd been back when he was a kid. So I… persuade him to change his mind, get him to say he'll give me the benefit of the doubt in future."

"Okay…" It sounded as though Angela wasn't sure where the story was leading.

"Later on the same morning it's her turn. I get her to agree to a ten o'clock curfew. She's all, 'We're sorry, we want you to stay here' but then straight away she says 'tell us all about yourself.' Well, I lose it, just for a second, she sees how angry I am about what they did and she's… upset. Not upset because she's on the receiving end – it wasn't like that, Ani, I didn't cuss her out or anything – but because she feels I have every right to be angry with them. I mean, I thought they deserved it too but…" Patrick tailed off, staring at nothing and slowly shaking his head. "Anyway, I came back here on Friday afternoon but I really only saw Mick Turner, handed over the RV. Now Mick I understood, he was trying it on with me so later I got back at him a little. We laughed about it and now it's all fine. A little give and take, earning respect and giving it, just a normal bit of negotiating, you know how it is."

Angela snorted wryly. "Yeah, I know."

"Then Saturday, Brodie takes me to see Dad. He tells me they want to start over too. We're standing in line at the jail, I ask him if he's nervous and he straight up says 'yes'. Just like that." Patrick's surprise was evident in his tone. "Brodie thinks I asked because I'm nervous too so he offers to stay with me when I talk to Dad. I cut him down and he just… accepts it, you know? No comeback, nothing. It's like he was sincere when he said he wanted to start over and do better second time around. If he's working an angle I can't see it. Then I get to see Dad and… I screwed up so bad, Ani, I've been so stupid. Two days living with suckers and he thinks I turned into one. Of course Dad points it all out, he's such a bastard sometimes, makes me feel like I'm five years old and I know nothing. There was me thinking I'd done well with the RV, with the Brodies. He's gonna get twelve months, they're moving him to the State Pen after he goes to Court next week and I'll only be able to visit once a month. He tells me all this and all I can think is, if prison brings out this side of him thank God I won't have to go see him every week. What – what kind of a crappy son does that make me?" Patrick could feel the tears trying to return so he blinked a few times.

"Oh Paddy…" Angela's voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Anyway this morning they make me go to church, I say they can't force me to take part so Brodie lets me read through the service. I get a lot of attention – I didn't mean to!" he protested at her look, "I really was just quietly reading, sitting in the pew next to them. I'm learning speed-reading. Anyway it didn't go down well, I guess I wasn't as unobtrusive as I thought, people complained and the Brodies were so embarrassed. At the end I can see the vinegar on the pastor's face about to spew out so I… kinda… bait him a little, just pointing out what hypocrites they all are." This got another look from Angela, she took a deep breath but Patrick cut her off. "You should have heard his sermon Ani, the pastor preaching to everyone not to be self-righteous while they're all being just that, including him! And the Brodies just… sucked it up. No words, nothing. The pastor leaves a hot message on their telephone recording machine and all Brodie does is say I have to go to Sunday school not church next week, and he'll even have a word with the guy in charge because he thinks I'm refusing to take part on principle. He sees me working on their son's old bike earlier and he comes right out and says he's impressed. I hated them on Thursday night and now…" Patrick tailed off again. "I don't know what to think. They were gonna call the cops on me but they still seem like they're better parents than Dad and that makes me feel like – like a traitor." Patrick's face was a picture of uncertainty and misery.

"Paddy. Look at me. A damn rock is a better dad than Alex sometimes. Everyone knows it, hell probably even the rocks know it. Thinking it doesn't make you a traitor. Wanting to avoid him when he's like that doesn't make you a bad son. I heard what you did, asking around to see what was best to give him going into jail. That's being a good son, it's what you do that matters, not what you find yourself thinking when he's being an asshole." This got a faint smile, he always found it amusing hearing swearwords coming from Angela even though it wasn't so uncommon. She took it as an encouraging sign.

"You are _not_ stupid. You're the smartest person I know. No, it's true, you are, your dad isn't as smart as he thinks he is and even my granddad, yeah he's sharp when he's running all the circuits but he knows what he knows – while you're always wanting to learn new stuff or do things better. I don't know what your dad expects from you but I can tell you, Mick Turner's no pushover and he was impressed, maybe even a little bit scared of you by the end of Friday. At least he said he never wanted to get on the wrong side of you if he could help it." Another smile ghosted Patrick's lips. If that was true maybe he didn't need a fuel deposit after all.

"It sounds like you've had a hell of a few days. It's gonna feel weird being in a strange place, living with strangers. It was weird enough for me and Danny moving in with Nannie and Granddad, moving in with people you don't know is off the scale. Then they want to get you arrested! Of course you're gonna hate them for a bit. You don't have to hold onto it, though, Paddy. Not if they really know they made a mistake – and it sounds like they do, like they're trying to do better. Making a mistake doesn't make them bad, it makes them human. Giving them a second chance doesn't make you a mark, whatever your dad might think. Not everyone out there is a sucker, Paddy. Mostly we're all just people, trying to get along as best we can. There doesn't have to be an angle, not with people who take you into their home, even if they're not our kind of people."

"God Ani, I'm sorry, here I am banging on about dads and parents to you of all people–"

"Don't you start with that, Patrick Jane!"

A voice from inside called Angela's name. She yelled back, "Just a minute!" then turned back to Patrick.

"I'm fine. You listened to me talking about my mom for two years straight without batting an eyelid. I owe you a little listening time. Don't be so hard on yourself! Hah, that can be your dad's job." This got a real smile from Patrick.

"You'll do just fine in foster care. Yeah there's gonna be misunderstandings with them. Hell, we've known each other forever and even we don't always understand one another. You'll be okay. You're good at coping, adapting. It's only for a year."

"Six months, probably. There's some system that if he keeps out of trouble they knock days off his jail time. So long as he doesn't break their rules he'll be out in time for next season."

"Even better! You can still visit us here, yeah you've got school but elementary wasn't so bad, you said yourself you used to like it, maybe you'll like middle school too. And if you don't, well, six months isn't that long. And you got us, Paddy. There's the gang, there's the Barsockys, hell, everyone here knows you. Even granddad respects you, he'd never show it but he thought it was a hell of a thing you coming to sort out the move to uncle Billy's circuit next year. You'd get the same from anyone on the lot, any day of the week. You'll always get a welcome from me. Even when you start talking like your dad."

"Thanks, Ani." It was heartfelt but it wasn't enough. Patrick scooted over to her end of the sofa, gave her another hug. "You're the best, you know that? You always know just what to say."

"C'mon, lets watch this movie before you have to get back."

"So go on, what is it?"

"It's called 'The Breakfast Club' and it's all about… High school!"

Patrick groaned. "Do I really want to see this? Can't I just wait until tomorrow and see it for myself for real?"

"Everyone says it's very good. Uncle Billy's come over to watch it too, his latest girlfriend went to high school."

The older half of the gang were in the big room with the TV, scattered around on the big sofa and the floor in front, with Angela's uncle Billy and his new girlfriend, her uncle Michael and his wife, and Pops and Nannie on the little sofa and the armchairs. There was popcorn, beer and sodas on the table and the only seating space left was in the center of the big couch between Dougie and Danny. Patrick and Angela squeezed in and Billy started the VCR.

Halfway through the movie Patrick turned to Angela and whispered, "You really fancy that Bender guy. You always go for the bad boys!" She ignored him.

A little later he whispered again, "It's the gloves that do it for you. Y'know, I can think of at least three crewmen last summer who wore those fingerless leather gloves when they were rigging, and one of them was tall, dark and handsome. Dunno if he was a bad boy, though." This got him a shove.

Finally near the end Angela turned to Patrick. "You fancy the princess. You like your girls high-maintenance, you think they're a challenge!"

He glanced her way and whispered back, "Well that's because I have good taste. She'll be rich. I could marry a rich girl and get used to living in a big house. Hey, at least neither of us is into the jock or the nerd!" They both dissolved into silent giggles for a moment.

After the movie Patrick didn't notice the time until suddenly it was quarter to ten. He looked around, there were quite a few beer bottles in front of Billy.

"Hey bossman, any chance of a lift back?" he asked, but with little hope. Billy looked too drunk and Patrick wouldn't ask Michael Ruskin or Pops now they all knew he'd be working at Billy's carnival next year.

"Huh?" Yup, Billy wasn't fit to drive. Damn, he was going to be late again.

"I can run you back." This was Billy's girlfriend, she had been eyeing Billy with disapproval since the end of the movie. "You need to go straight away?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

She lifted the keys of Billy's pickup out of his pocket.

"Hey, babe, where ya goin'?" To his credit Billy wasn't slurring much.

"I'm giving the Jane boy a lift back." The woman's voice was cool but Billy wasn't sober enough to take the hint.

"But you coming right back, yeah, babe?" He went for her hand but took hold of her arm instead a hopeful look on his face.

"I think I'll see you tomorrow, Billy," she replied firmly, shaking him off and stepping outside.

Patrick raised his voice with a quick "Bye all!" then followed her outside. She was already in Billy's pickup so he threw the bike in the back and scrambled into the passenger side. She was driving before he'd shut the door so it took a moment before he could turn to the woman to say, "Thank you for the ride, ma'am."

She smiled. "Samantha Rose. I know you're Patrick Jane, the Boy Wonder. Billy was talking about you traveling with him next season. And thank you, I was trying to think of a way out of Billy's trailer tonight and you gave it to me. I don't like it when he gets drunk."

Patrick wavered between defending the new boss and not wanting to get between the man and his girlfriend. In the end he cautiously ventured, "He's just letting off steam, it's the end of the season."

"Yeah…" She said it in such a contemplative manner that it closed down any further discussion. Patrick looked at Samantha for a moment. She only looked around twenty, he thought, pretty and slim with her curly black hair relaxed into ringlets and big gold hoop earrings glinting as street lights flashed by. She had a very determined set to her jaw, though, and sounded like she knew what she wanted from life. He wouldn't want to get on her wrong side. He suddenly felt Billy Ruskin had been an idiot drinking so much beer this evening.

"Um, the house is in the suburbs. 12385 Monroe Avenue, about half a block west of thirty-fifth. I'm, ah, supposed to be back by ten."

"Okay," Samantha replied with a grin, speeding up a little, "I think you'll make it. You better jump out as soon as we get there, get through the front door by ten then it won't matter if you have to 'remember' to come back and get your bike afterwards."

Patrick grinned. "Thanks, Samantha."

"Call me Sam."

"Call me Paddy. Did you really go to high school? Was it anything like in the movie? I have to start middle school tomorrow, but I haven't done school since I graduated elementary."

"How old are you, Paddy?"

"I'm thirteen. Seventh grade." This got a raised eyebrow from Samantha. "Yeah, I know I look younger."

"Well, junior high isn't as bad as high school. You still get the jocks and princesses. Not in every class, but in the school. And the bad kids, the bullies and criminals. Most kids are nerds. They don't all make friends with each other like in the movie though."

"Which were you?" It was a cheeky question but she hadn't shut him down yet.

"Mostly I wasn't there. Spent my time playing hooky and getting into hot water till the carnival found me and I just moved on." Patrick nodded. There were two types of carnies: three, really. There were the kids like him, born to it, there were the people who found a home at the carnival when they'd never found a home anywhere else, and there were the short-termers, people who lasted maybe a year on the midway but who found it too hard, or too lonely, or just too damn much. Sam was only young but she'd found a home, it looked like.

"Um, can I ask another favor, Sam?"

"You can ask."

"I, uh, wasn't supposed to watch an R rated movie. I'm gonna tell them I saw 'Flight of the Navigator', it's a kids movie I saw last year."

"Townies laying down a lotta rules, huh? Okay. I never saw no movie with no kids, I just offered you a lift back afterwards, yeah?"

"Yes ma'am!"

Samantha chuckled. "You'll owe me one, though, Paddy."

"I'm sure I'll find some way to pay you back."

"Yeah, I heard about Mick Turner and the cougar. You really dropped him in it."

"Meh." Patrick waved a hand airily. "He was enjoying the attention. At first, anyway. I got him out of there, too."

"You're some piece of work, Paddy Jane." She sounded amused. "Here we are, Monroe and thirty-fifth. How far west?"

"Just there, after the third tree, see the double garage and the flowers? That one."

Sam pulled right up onto the drive and came to a halt in front of the big garage. Patrick jumped from the pickup before it stopped moving and ran up to the porch: the front door was still open. Sam waited a few minutes, then slowly reversed back out into the street. Patrick sprinted up to the truck as it paused by the curb.

"That was a great plan, Sam!" Patrick was beaming at her. "He was actually at the door just as I opened it. If I'd picked up the bike first it would've been locked."

"You gotta know how townies think, Paddy."

"Yeah, I'm learning. Thank you for the ride, Samantha Rose, I definitely owe you." With that Patrick went to grab the bike from the back. Brodie had opened the garage, was waiting for him to wheel it in. Patrick turned to wave as Sam set off.

"You seem to know a lot of older kids with pickups, Patrick. Will we ever get to meet one of the friends who give you lifts?" Brodie was smiling, he didn't look like he was as suspicious as he sounded.

Patrick was puzzled: what point was Brodie trying to make? "They're old enough to drive, Mr. Brodie. I have friends who are adults, not just other kids my age. It got too late for me to ride back so I asked for a lift. That was the boss's girlfriend, the boss couldn't drive me back tonight."

"I didn't mean… Okay Patrick, never mind. Bedtime, young man. You have school in the morning and I have an early flight."

"Yes, sir."


	9. Chapter 9

"Hey, is that, uh, Paddy Jane?" The voice rang through the corridor in his direction. Patrick was sitting outside the administration office near the school's main door. He'd dropped off the forms his social worker had left after her visit and was waiting for someone to become free in order to show him to his home room for registration. Patrick saw a face he thought he recognized from his time at Stoney Ridge Elementary. Not a friend but not an enemy either, one of the sporty boys who had been in his class. He looked a lot taller and very much like a jock now. He dug a name from somewhere.

"Drew…?"

"Yeah man! Andrew Williams! Everyone calls me 'Andy' now though."

"I'm Patrick these days."

"Patrick. Cool. I thought you moved outta State. You moved back now?"

"We move around a lot. I'm back here for a little while," Patrick nodded.

At that moment one of the office ladies came out into the hall then stopped and smiled when she saw them talking.

"Andrew Williams! You know Patrick Jane?"

"Yes ma'am, we were in the same class at Stoney Ridge Elementary."

"Andrew is one of our athletes," the woman explained to Patrick before she turned back to Andy. "Patrick's starting today in Mrs. Bolton's home room, that's your home room too isn't it? Looks like you're back in the same class again. Why don't you show him where everything is? Patrick, here's your locker key, it's number 112, seventh graders have the blue lockers. Just make sure you don't miss registration, Andrew."

"Sure thing, Ms. Coleman." Andy grinned at Patrick. "C'mon." The woman disappeared back into the office.

"So Andy… You a jock now?"

The boy smiled. "I guess so. I'm on the basketball team anyway. We won all our games so far this year."

"Good for you, man."

"Nah, it sounds better than it is. I spend more time on the bench than playing. Most of the team are in eighth grade."

"What's your position?"

"Shooting guard, but I can sub in anywhere. I was power forward for a couple minutes play in our last game. Didn't score any hoops though." There was a slightly awkward pause as Patrick didn't respond to this. He hadn't played basketball since leaving elementary school, he'd find it hard to choose a team to support in any sport, he couldn't remember the names of any famous basketball players and he was struggling to find anything to say about basketball. Suddenly Andy spoke again, "Hey, you still doing gymnastics?"

"Gymnastics?"

"I remember you climbing that tree in fourth grade. We were all just hanging onto that branch then dropping off again, you swung up like it was nothing. I figured you must have been doing gymnastics outside of school. Anyway, these are the blue lockers, all along this corridor. There ya go, 112."

Patrick remembered now, the only time he'd climbed a tree in front of anyone from school. He'd wandered over to the small park that was opposite the main gate after he saw a crowd of boys from his class hanging around over there. They were all trying to get up into a tree the older boys often climbed, which had one low branch they could jump up and grab onto. However none of these boys had been able to get any further. He'd waited his turn then tried swinging up like a trapeze artist and to everyone's surprise, including his own, he had managed it. Andy must have been one of the boys in the crowd.

"Never did gymnastics. I guess I just got lucky that day."

Andy looked at him curiously then shrugged. "We worked together in fifth grade as well one time, on that Ancient Egypt project with Jimmy Drake and Anne Morretti. Only time I ever got top marks in anything." Andy's expression was a little wistful.

Patrick wondered if that was why Andy was being so friendly with him. He'd never envied the sporty boys or tried to become their friends in elementary school but he knew other kids had. It never occurred to him that a sporty boy might envy a kid who got good grades. Jocks didn't need good grades but maybe they wanted them – this jock, anyway. Perhaps he was trying to stake a claim on Patrick before he made any other friends, seeing him as a way to help improve his grades? That didn't make a lot of sense, there were surely plenty of nerd kids who wanted an 'in' with the jocks. Didn't jocks bully clever nerds into doing their homework if one didn't just volunteer? Maybe that only happened in movies.

Would being a hanger-on with the jocks be such a bad thing? It would give Patrick an instant group of – if not friends, at least people with whom he could hang out at school. The only problem was that they'd be jocks and their hangers-on. He really wasn't interested in sports, or in the jostling for status between the hangers-on in the group. That was no reason to be unfriendly, though.

"So who else is here from Stoney Ridge Elementary?"

"It's mostly people from the other class. Jimmy was here but his parents divorced, he moved with his Mom to San Jose at the end of last year. Anne went to some fancy prep school upstate. Peter Weston's family moved to Seattle, Tom Fulton, Tom Price and Leroy Smith all went to Ruger Memorial instead of here. A lot of the boys from our class went there."

Most of those names were the other sporty boys from his old class, Andy's old friends. He must have felt pretty lonely when he started here. Patrick looked at him curiously. Now Jimmy was no longer around either was Andy a bit lonely again? A jock who nevertheless hadn't really made friends with the other jocks here? Andy was still talking.

"We beat Ruger at basketball last week." Andy smiled at the memory. "Here's Mrs. Bolton's classroom."

When they walked in they caught every eye. The class was sitting down and quiet, it looked as though Mrs. Bolton was halfway through registration.

"I'm sorry I'm a bit tardy, Mrs. Bolton. Ms. Coleman asked me to show the new guy around," Andy explained, then headed over to sit with around five or six other boys, more wannabees than real jocks if Patrick was any judge.

"You must be Patrick Jane," Bolton said to Patrick as he hesitated just inside the door. Come over to the front here. Everyone? This is Patrick Jane, he just started today. Patrick, tell us all something about yourself."

"Hello ladies and gentlemen, my name is Patrick Jane, I just moved into a new place on Monroe in the suburbs which is why I'm joining you here today in Mrs. Bolton's class." Patrick rattled this off with practiced ease, noting some surprised looks on a few of the faces in front of him. He then glanced at Mrs. Bolton, hoping she hadn't noticed that he'd said very little about himself and that this little speech would be sufficient. Yes, it looked like she was happy with what he said.

"I expect everyone here still remembers how it felt last year when you were new. I hope you'll all make Patrick feel very welcome. You can sit down now, Patrick." She indicated two empty desks three rows back so Patrick went to sit in one of them.

"Not that one!" whispered the girl at the desk behind. "That's Tran's desk." He sat in the other one instead, she grinned at him and gave him a swift nod.

Mrs. Bolton finished registration then called Patrick back over to her desk. The sound of kids chatting rose in the background.

"This is your timetable, Patrick. You'll need to show this card to all your teachers this week, to make sure they know who you are. They'll sort out text books for you when you start each class. Have you been assigned a locker yet?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Good, you can keep books in there along with your coat and gym things when you don't need to take them home. Your first class this morning is French. I teach foreign languages including French but it doesn't look like I'll be teaching you this year, you have Mme. Tremblay. Have you studied French before?"

"Non, Madame, je ne l'ai pas étudié." Patrick seemed as confident speaking French as he had been speaking in front of the class.

"Très bien M. Jane! Tu parles le français comme un français! Where did you learn to speak French?"

"Oh, I got to know a French family pretty well, they lived near us for a while. I've been told I have a strong Pas-de-Calais accent, though, and I'd like to improve my reading and writing."

"Most kids choose Spanish, it's more useful around here."

"My uncles a native Spanish speaker so I'm pretty good with Spanish, including reading and writing, but I really only _speak_ French."

"Very well done! We Americans don't often bother learning other languages, sadly."

"Once you have a second, the others are much easier."

"Yes that's very true, Patrick." A loud bell rang in the corridor as she spoke. The sudden noisy chaos that ensued startled Patrick a little, everyone was grabbing bags and moving towards the door, much faster even than a crowd emptying the big tent at the end of a show. There was a certain amount of shoving happening in the doorway.

"No pushing!" Mrs. Bolton called. "Michelle, I'm talking to you! No pushing! You need to get your things and go to class now, Patrick," she added.

Patrick was looking at his timetable, wondering where room two-nineteen was, when the girl from the row behind came up to him.

"Hi, I'm Ashley. Sorry about that," she gestured at the empty desk next to his, "but you don't want to get on the wrong side of Tran on your first day."

Patrick didn't want to get on the wrong side of anyone on any day. He smiled at the girl.

"No, thanks for pointing it out. Hey, do you know where room 219 is?"

"Oh! You don't have math first class?" Her face fell a little. Patrick hadn't been paying her much attention but now he took her in more her carefully. Slightly shorter than him, with brown hair and eyes, she wasn't a princess but was far from nerd-like, her high and slightly frilly collar and especially her swooping hair giving her a bit of a 'Lady Di' vibe that wasn't really his cup of tea. "I have math in 104. Nineteen is upstairs, that's why it's _two_-nineteen, but I can't show you, I have to go the other way." She smiled again and there it was, a quick glance down at him before she headed off. She liked him – probably. He was more confident spotting if a girl was interested in someone else. Well, school wasn't too bad so far, a friendly jock and possible interest from a girl and he'd only been here for half an hour. Feeling slightly flattered Patrick smiled at her retreating back then approached Mrs. Bolton as the room emptied.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Bolton, how do I get to room two-nineteen?"

"Turn right out of the classroom, up the stairs at the end of the corridor, straight ahead to the end then left, room nineteen is halfway down on your right. You'd better hurry, Patrick, or you'll be late."

Patrick wasn't late but he did arrive at the classroom last. Andy was sitting at the back but all the places around him were taken. The free desks were all down at the front so Patrick took the rightmost one, nearest the door.

A tall woman with grey hair and a displeased look ingrained into the lines around her mouth silently walked into the classroom and stood behind the teacher's desk. She eyed the class for a moment before speaking.

"Bonjour, la classe!" She had a strong Quebecois accent.

Around half of the students noticed. They stood to face her and began a ragged response.

"Bonjour, Madame!" The kids who hadn't spoken noticed their classmates, started to quieten down and stand as well. Patrick remained seated, fascinated. He loved to see how other performers did their thing and his spot down at the front was the perfect place from which to observe. Mme. Tremblay had a quiet voice, which must be why she had instigated this little pantomime at the start of her class to get everyone's attention.

"Non, non, non!" She picked up a small pot from the desk and emphasized each word with a sharp rap. The kids who weren't standing yet did so. Patrick didn't bother and it caught her eye.

"Lèves-toi!" she said to him with a frown. Oh, okay, no introduction to the class here, he was simply expected to know and follow the rules. Patrick sighed – at which the corners of Tremblay's mouth turned down even more – then stood. She nodded slightly and turned back to the class.

"Bonjour, la classe!"

"Bonjour, Madame!" This was louder and all in sync.

"Asseyez-vous." Tremblay waved everyone to sit. Patrick remained standing, the 'new boy' card in his hand, intending to head over and show it to Mrs. Tremblay. As soon as he started moving she turned back to him.

"Garçon! Que penses-tu faire? Assis-toi!"

Patrick hated being called 'boy', his dad did it all the time. It made him feel too young, too stupid, too ignorant. Nevertheless Patrick sat, maybe he didn't need a text book for this lesson and Mme. Tremblay would give it out at the end of the class. That idea was squashed by her next barked order.

"Sortez vos livres, à la page trente-et-un, vos proches." She punctuated this sentence by writing 'p31' at the bottom of the board behind her, then writing 'Proches – Relatives' across the top and underlining it.

"Vous avez vos mères et pères, vos frères et soeurs, vos oncles, tantes et cousins." As she spoke each noun she wrote down the word in French until the list was on the board. "Décrivez-moi vos familles. Utilisez 'appeler,'" she conjugated the verb, reading out each form as she wrote it down in a second list beside the first one, "pour les nommer." She turned around.

"Vous pouvez commencer. En silence!" she added, as some murmuring broke out.

Patrick took this opportunity to stand, card again in his hand.

"Assis-toi! Ecris au moins deux phrases sur tes proches!" She lifted two fingers and mimed a 'writing' motion with her hand.

Patrick remained standing.

"Madame! J'ai besoin d'un livre. Je suis nouveau." He held up his 'new boy' card again for her to see. She looked at him curiously: so did some of the other students.

"Tu parles bien le français. Pourquoi es-tu en cours de francais?" Tremblay spoke this much faster and didn't bother with her Marcel Marceau act.

"Oui, je parle le français, Madame, mais je voudrais mieux le lire et l'écrire."

"Oh! Bien. Viens prendre un livre." She turned to a nearby low cupboard, dug a text book out for him. Patrick wasn't convinced her 'immersive' approach to teaching the language was very effective, judging from the puzzled looks he could see from his classmates as he returned to his seat. The other kids didn't seem to have followed even this brief simple exchange in French, though it was true she had spoken much more slowly when she'd been talking to the class. They were all busy writing though, so maybe his goal of improving his reading and writing in French wasn't a complete bust. Page thirty-one turned out to contain much the same vocabulary as she had written on the board, but with a much better explanation than Mme. Tremblay had provided – in English – of how to describe relatives in French and how to use 'appeler' to name them. Patrick started writing.

Mme. Tremblay didn't seem to improve as the lesson went on. She picked on students to read out their work by pointing rather than using their names, then criticized their errors - all the time speaking in French. One poor lad had used feminine gendered words to describe his brother and Tremblay had turned sarcastic. Patrick was sure most of the people in the class hadn't understood what those guys had gotten wrong and Tremblay certainly didn't make it clear how they should correct their pronunciation and grammar. She pointed to Patrick next.

"Décris-moi ta famille." Patrick smiled and decided to ignore the few sentences that he'd written.

"Je m'appelle Patrick Jane, j'ai treize ans. Je n'ai pas de frères ni de sœurs, mais j'ai deux tantes qui ont épousé des français: Monsieur et Madame Cule a un fils, qui s'appelle Jean." This was a 'Monsieur et Madame' joke, a very rude one, but Mme. Tremblay didn't react much at first. She gave the slightest of frowns suggesting that she suspected something was not quite right, but hadn't quite realized what that might be. Maybe it was his pronunciation. Patrick took it as his cue to keep going as long as he could. "L'autre famille, Monsieur et Madame Uler, ont une fille et un fils. Ils sappellent Yvonne et Jacques." Oh yes, she got the meaning of that one! Tremblay's jaw dropped and she started blushing so hard it looked like she was turning into a beetroot. The rest of the class apparently hadn't understood the jokes but they couldn't fail to see her reaction. Her shocked silence didn't last long but her expression while it did was a picture, even some of the other kids were sniggering now purely at her behavior.

"Out! Out of the classroom, now! Stand outside the door! You wait there until the end of the class!" Tremblay was, yes, trembling with embarrassment and fury as she said it, her hands twitching until she pointed at the door. Patrick gathered up his things and silently left the classroom, still smirking. He found it even more amusing that his French jokes had finally made her revert to English. There was a chair in the corridor opposite so Patrick settled himself down and started browsing his new French text book. It was a much better teacher than Tremblay.

At the end of class Mme. Tremblay called him back to the classroom – once it was empty – but didn't let him enter it, as though she didn't want him polluting her space. Instead she handed him a slip of paper, said the word 'Detention' without looking at his face then turned on her heel and shut the door.

Patrick was last to arrive at his next class, art, as the building that housed the art classrooms was across the school. This was a much more popular class, in fact there was only one free chair. The tables were arranged in groups with the kids seated around the outside rather than in rows. The only free space was directly in front of the teacher's desk at a table full of girls. There was already a buzz of easy conversation in the room but it didn't quite mask the chuckles that came, yes, from the jock's table. Andy was frowning at one of the boys whose back was to him but the others in his group were smiling or laughing and had turned to watch him. They must have arranged this, expecting him to feel uncomfortable about being so close to the teacher or the girls or both. Patrick beamed at the jock table, causing a few grins to falter, then went to talk with the teacher.

"Ms. Novak? I'm Patrick Jane, I'm sorry I'm a little tardy, I'm new. Is there a text book I need to collect?" He pulled his 'new boy' card from his pocket.

"It's okay, Patrick, you're not late, just last one in. No, no text book, the art books stay in the classroom rather than being handed out. Today everyone is just finishing their work from last week. I suggest you grab a board and some paper from over there, spend this class drawing whatever you like and I'll come take a look at your work in a little while. Show me what you can do."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

Patrick looked around at every girl at the table, smiling apologetically.

"I'm sorry, there aren't any other free spaces, I hope you don't mind me joining you today?"

Two of the girls were gigglers but the rest said a word of welcome or simply nodded and smiled at him before carrying on drawing. They appeared to be working on letters of the alphabet: designing fonts, Patrick guessed. The girl next to him had a drawing of a little cat in every letter, snoozing on the top of the 'Z', threading itself through the 'W', the head just peeking through the middle of the 'O'. It was inventive and witty and he said so to her as he sat.

This opened an easy conversation between everyone at the table as he got to see their work. They were the group who chose to sit under the teacher's eye right at the front so they were keen on art class rather than treating it as an easy option. He in turn was in his element being surrounded by girls, after all the bulk of his 'Boy Wonder' audience was female. He even handled the ones who seemed unable to talk to him without giggling with an easy, practiced manner. Their giggling didn't bother him, he could work an _appreciative_ audience in his sleep. After he settled down he asked them if it was OK to draw their portraits and eventually got assent from them all. He found drawing relaxing, very different from everything else he did. He'd learned some tricks from a caricaturist who had worked at the carnival that season and was soon enjoying himself. He had no illusions as to his own ability with a pencil so could take the girls' mild ribbing about his efforts with grace. Patrick made up for his poor quality drawn portraiture with his much more accurate word portraits as he cold-read each girl under cover of scrutinizing them for his drawing. The other girls joined in with light banter as each went under the spotlight in turn. Patrick was enjoying himself – it was like a workout for his brain – and as he remained as vague and complimentary as a newspaper horoscope it was met with approval and even amusement rather than discomfort from the girls.

Ms. Novak was broadly encouraging when she came around to see what he was doing. She moved on to the other end of the room and that was when it happened. Something appeared in Patrick's peripheral vision and at the same time blue liquid paint was squirted from a plastic bottle over his shoulder onto the table. He turned as the bottle hit the floor but the hand that had wielded it could have belonged to any one of around half a dozen people who were behind where he was sitting, leaving their completed work beside Ms. Novak's desk. Abigail, the cat alphabet girl, started wailing and he turned back, his heart sinking. His drawing was untouched but her cat alphabet was liberally spattered, with two of the other girls having some paint on their things too. He looked down at his feet where the incriminating bottle still lay then up into the disappointed and accusatory expressions of Ms. Novak and the girls. Abigail was in tears, utterly distraught.

Patrick was given a second detention form and spent the rest of the class and part of his first lunch break gently cleaning up the stained art work under the tight-lipped supervision of Ms. Novak. He'd protested his innocence but the bottle of paint by his feet and his own unsullied artwork were taken as conclusive proof to the contrary.

As he stood at the sink he closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the people he had seen behind him just after it happened. There had been four girls and two boys. Two of the girls had been facing him from behind the teacher's desk, too far away to have done it. The other four had their backs to him. Of those, two had their hands full with the big drawing boards that held their finished work. Hard to throw paint with your hands full. That left a boy in a yellow sweater and a girl with a Madonna-wannabee vibe, both of whose hands had been free. The girl he didn't know. She had no reason to cause trouble for him but maybe she didn't like Abigail? The boy – was he the same one from the jock table who had been on the receiving end of Andy's frown?

"Come on Patrick, pay attention!" Novak's voice cut in before Patrick could frame that earlier scene in his mind so he refocused on the task in hand.

Most of the remaining blue pigment eventually washed out under running water and fortunately the pencil work below wasn't too faded in the process. Novak was finally satisfied so he left the art drying in the classroom and hurried to catch the end of lunch break.

Patrick had just picked up some lunch, spotted Liss at the far side of the room and was heading over there when he heard Andy call his name for the second time that day. This time the group of jocks was bigger, sprawled over two nearby dining room tables, and included a lot of older kids – the basketball team, probably. Patrick stopped and took a wary step towards them. This didn't look like an invitation to join them, though Andy was smiling in a friendly manner.

"Hey Patrick, what was it you said in French class? I've never seen Tremblay so mad about anything, and that's saying something!"

Patrick took a moment to glance around the group then wished he hadn't. His hesitation simply attracted the attention of all the jocks and many of the people at nearby tables who all turned to stare at him. So much for keeping his head down. OK, this was a performance now.

"They were just a couple of 'Monsieur et Madame' jokes. They're kinda like the French equivalent of 'knock knock' jokes, I guess."

"Just jokes? Go on, tell me one in English."

"Ah, okay. I said I had an aunt who was married, then said the family's names: Mr. and Mrs. Koff and their son Jack."

Andy's eyes widened then he snorted with laughter. Another kid who had just taken a mouthful of soda was choking and laughing at the same time. Only a couple of other people got the joke but there was enough confusion for Patrick to move away surreptitiously before someone at the jock table stage-whispered, "You have to say the kids name out loud! Jack Koff!" That part of the dining hall erupted and Patrick thought he'd made his escape when suddenly Abigail was blocking his way. Her eyes were still red, fixed on Patrick and ignoring the jocks in the background as they started making up their own jokes along similar lines.

"Is my alphabet okay?"

"Yes! I mean, there's some faint blue stains but you can still see all the drawings of letters, it isn't ruined. We didn't take them off the boards so they should even dry flat. It, uh, it wasn't me," Patrick added. "I didn't do it."

Abigail's eyebrows flew upwards. "No, I know it wasn't you. I didn't see who did it," she continued quickly, seeing his expression, "but you were sitting right next to me, I could see both your hands in front of you out of the corner of my eye when it happened. The paint came from high up, like over your head."

"You didn't say anything! I just spent half an hour clearing it up and being told off by Novak! I got a detention!" Patrick replied hotly. If she knew it wasn't him then why did she let him take the blame?

"I was upset, if you didn't notice!" Abigail was getting angry too. "I thought all that work was ruined! We get our report cards on Friday, this was my Art assessment! I didn't even know they thought it was you until afterwards, Kim and Stacey took me out of the class and by the time I calmed down lunch break had started. That's when Kim told me you got the blame and said you were cleaning everything up. That's why I waited here. Er, thanks for washing the paint off," she added awkwardly. "I'll go tell Ms. Novak straight away–" The bell rang. "Well, I'll tell her at the end of the day." Abigail turned before he could say another word and was gone.

The dining hall was rapidly emptying. Patrick finally made it to Liss's table as she and her friends were standing to leave.

"Hi Patrick. What was that about?" she nodded towards the jocks.

"Oh, I just told them a joke."

"Go on, tell me." Liss was looking amused. Patrick had already started wolfing his lunch as fast as he could.

"Tell you later," he said with his mouth full and Liss reluctantly nodded.

"Yeah, don't want to be late for class," she said before heading off.

Damn, what was his next class? Patrick dug out his timetable. Social studies, in room one-twelve. It was a subject he hadn't had in elementary otherwise he would have sought out the school library rather than heading towards the classroom. This would be so much easier if he had some people on his side. Joining Andy and the jocks was looking more attractive by the hour. Although… Patrick closed his eyes again and pictured the jock table when he entered the art classroom. They were all laughing in anticipation except Andy who was frowning. The boy in the yellow sweater _was_ one of the jocks, a wannabee anyway, could have been the one at whom Andy had frowned. If the jocks thought it was some kind of prank to put the new boy right under the teacher's nose surrounded by a bunch of girls then it had backfired when Patrick had been happy to sit there. What if it had been Yellow Sweater's idea? Would he be motivated to escalate the prank to paint squirting? It was as plausible as Fake Madonna having a grudge against Abigail. He finished up and set off for room one-twelve.

Patrick was the last one into the classroom again. This class had already started. Thankfully his 'new boy' card got him out of any trouble for tardiness although it gained him another text book. The teacher, Mrs. Fairey, made him stand at the front and introduce himself to the class, much as Mrs. Bolton had that morning, before he could take a seat. Andy wasn't there but the girl from home room was – Ashley? – and the desk next to her was free. He put his bag down there and settled in as she smiled at him.

This class was about the Constitution. Patrick was interested in the subject – he even had a 'Pocket Constitution' in his bag, it was one of the very few things he'd ever been given without obligation – but couldn't force himself to be interested in this class. Mrs. Fairey seemed less unpleasant than Tremblay had been this morning but still not a good teacher. She dictated her notes in a slow, monotonous tone for the class to write down – and there seemed to be a lot of notes.

The trouble happened when Mrs. Fairey started talking about Presidential impeachment. First she got sidetracked into talking about how Nixon wasn't impeached by an earnest-looking girl who sat near the back. Then she asked the fateful question, 'What happens when the House of Representatives decides a President should be removed from office?" No-one else put their hand up so after a moment Patrick raised his. Mrs. Fairey was asking what happened after a President had been impeached.

"The President is tried before the Senate, with the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court presiding."

"No, Patrick," Fairey said with a weary tone to her voice, "its impeachment. That's what we're talking about today. Impeachment. The Senate impeaches the President." She started dictating a paragraph to this effect and the rest of the class began writing it down.

"No, I'm sure that's wrong," Patrick muttered. He dug around in his bag.

"What's that?" Ashley whispered.

"She's wrong. The House of–"

"Patrick Jane! No talking! Whatever you're saying can wait until break, unless it's something that you'd care to share with the class?" This was a line Fairey had often used to stop kids chatting with their friends, no-one had ever taken her at her word. Until now.

"Thank you, ma'am." Patrick had by now opened his Pocket Constitution to the right page so he stood up and started reading.

"Article 1 clause 2 section 5 of the Constitution states, 'The House of Representatives shall choose their Speaker and other Officers; and shall have the sole Power of Impeachment.' The Senate doesn't impeach the President, Mrs. Fairey, it tries him after he's impeached by the House."

Patrick wasn't sure what to expect from Fairey. This wasn't the first time in his life that he'd corrected a teacher and some reacted better than others in his experience. However he wasn't expecting the rest of the class to react like it did. There was silence for just a heartbeat then a wave of laughter and some applause broke out around Patrick. Fairey stood at the front of the class opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish for what seemed like a very long time before she fled.

The class had become very noisy by the time the door opened again. A tall, stern-looking man with close-cropped grey hair stood glowering in the doorway for a moment, which was long enough to subdue the class into uneasy silence and make them sit. He stalked over to stand behind the teacher's desk and glared at the class.

"You will take out your books and copy out chapter three in silence. Patrick Jane!" The man stared around the room. Patrick raised his hand. "Detention. Come here, boy."

* * *

Patrick seriously considered skipping his next class, Language Arts. He was discouraged by the behavior of the other teachers he'd had so far today and he also wanted to check out the school library, have a little time to himself to think. However the name of the class intrigued him, he liked words and language, had never heard the subject of English called 'language arts' before. Unable to choose he picked out his genuine quarter and flipped: heads for library. It came down tails. Shrugging, he headed towards the class instead, arriving on time for the first time that day.

Patrick glanced around but didn't recognize any faces until he saw one boy who looked vaguely familiar from Stoney Ridge. Not from his year, though. The realization struck Patrick with the force of an eighteen-wheeler: they'd dropped him down into sixth grade for English! Someone somewhere had seen he hadn't been to school for a couple of years and decided he'd need to do a remedial class! Without even bothering to tell him! Anger and resentment vied for control of his actions as he flung himself into a place at the very back of the class with a sour expression.

Ms. Portman made him stand and introduce himself but he said almost nothing apart from his name, glowering at her and allowing the uncomfortable silence to extend until she asked him to sit. She handed him two text books, one on English grammar and the other a book of poetry: with Halloween coming up the class was studying Poe's 'The Raven'.

Patrick started out resentfully silent but found that he couldn't sustain it. He hadn't read much poetry but he had come across 'The Raven' before and he was familiar with Poe's famous spat with Charles Dickens – during his recent 'Dickens' phase he'd read as much as he could find in the small-town libraries he frequented about the author as well as his novels. After a few minutes he became even more interested in the class in spite of himself, as Portman explained the allusions to Pallas and Pluto, nepenthe and Balm of Gilead, seraphim and Aidenn that he'd noticed but not understood when he'd first read the poem. Patrick began wondering if it might be worth trying to find a book on Greek mythology in the Carson Springs library that afternoon. He might even read a bible, to better understand the mythology of his own country.

Someone put a hand up to ask about what the word 'Quarles' meant and Portman replied 'No-one knows.' Patrick's hand automatically went up and before he realized it Patrick was talking at length, going into great detail about Dickens, Poe, their quarrel (and why Dickens was totally in the wrong) and the rich language of satire and literary invective.* Patrick was a good storyteller and his classmates seemed interested in what he was telling them. At first Portman was astonished. Patrick had started out like any other lumbering remedial idiot, monosyllabic and resentful, but now he had transformed into an eloquent and witty raconteur, basking in the interest and questions of his classmates. Portman didn't like answering questions that interrupted her flow but Patrick effortlessly wove them into his narrative as though he'd anticipated every one.

The class had never been this interested in anything she had ever said. She resented the fact that not only had he had taken over her class, he also showed no sign of giving it back to her. When her warning 'that's enough Patrick' didn't have the desired effect she closed down his performance by calling him to the front of the class and issuing him with a detention, making it a solid four for four and leaving Patrick temporarily speechless.

* * *

*"English Notes for Extensive Circulation" — December 6, 1842 — Boston: Published by the Daily Mail Office - long attributed to Poe

'Poe's signature to 'The Raven', Joseph Jackson, 'The Sewanee Review' vol. 26, 01/07/1918 - Claims Poe is the author of 'English Notes'

Philips, Mary Elizabeth, "Poe The Man", Chicago, IL: John C. Winston, 1926, 2 vols. - Casts doubt about Poe's authorship of 'English Notes'

Carlton, William Newnham Chattin, "The Authorship of English Notes by Quarles Quickens reviewed," _Americana Collector_ (Metuchen, NJ), vol. I, no. 5, February 1926, pp. 186-192 - Also casts doubt about Poe's authorship

Poe's authorship of 'English Notes' finally and definitively refuted by the Poe Society in 2017.

[AN: If you're interested you'll need to google the Poe Society's web site for the full details, I can't publish a link here. It seems likely that Poe used the signature 'Quarles' at the end of 'The Raven' to indicate how strongly he agreed with the anti-Dickens sentiments of 'English Notes' rather than to claim authorship of it.]


	10. Chapter 10

Liss cornered Patrick as soon as he got home.

"Where have you been? You weren't on the bus home. Are these new 'Mr. and Mrs.' jokes going round the school your doing? Is that what was happening with the jocks at lunch break today?"

"Hi Liss, it's good to see you too, how was your day?" Patrick replied with a smirk.

"Oh, okay, yeah, hi Patrick, how you doing, now did you start the craze for 'Mr. and Mrs.' jokes today?"

"I might have done," Patrick admitted.

"Huh!" Liss sounded surprised and impressed.

"I went to the city library after school, that's why I wasn't on the bus. Mrs. Brodie said I could go, so I did."

"Huh." She sounded less impressed. At this point Sally appeared.

"Hello, Patrick. How was your first day at school?"

"It was fine," he lied. Even as he did so he wondered if he might have been more open with Brodie than his wife. The uncomfortable thought struck Patrick that all the things he disliked about Sally were what made her so mom-like. He had always imagined that he would have liked having a real mom but maybe he'd been fooling himself. The idea was a bleak one so he tucked it away, he had enough on his plate at the moment. "French, art, social studies, language arts. Uh, that last one's a remedial class, Mrs. Brodie, but I'm pretty sure I don't need to catch up with English."

"Oh, I can come down to the school and talk to them for you, Patrick. You can take a formal assessment in English and math if you think they started you in the wrong classes. I guess you have math class tomorrow? I'm in San Francisco Wednesday but I can drop by school on Thursday, get them to arrange for you to take the tests next week – if that's what you want?" Sally was smiling uncertainly.

"I think I'd like that, ma'am." Yeah, he was damned if he'd let anyone assume he was stupid.

"Patrick started a new jokes craze," Liss unexpectedly volunteered.

"Oh, good for you, Patrick. Tell me one of your jokes," Sally smiled expectantly. Behind her Liss's face was a picture as she realized she hadn't heard a clean joke all day.

"They're 'Mr. and Mrs.' jokes, Mrs. Brodie," Patrick replied innocently. "You pretend you're announcing guests arriving at an event. So..." He effortlessly slipped into an MC voice. "Attending the Gardener's Ball tonight we have Mr. and Mrs. Compost and their son Pete. Next up is the farmer's widow Mrs. Atrench, and her muddy son Doug. Our guests of honor, all the way from Japan, it's Mr. and Mrs. Sai, and their tiny daughter Bonny." Patrick smiled broadly. "Say the kids names for the joke: peat compost, dug a trench, bonsai. Well, bonny-sai, but you get what I mean. The kids' names make puns."

"Yes, very good, Patrick," Sally chuckled and nodded before she changed the subject. "Do you have homework? We do homework at the table straight after school to make sure it gets done every afternoon."

"No homework," Patrick lied easily. This afternoon's trip to the library and subsequent bus ride hadn't been enough after his horrible school day. Patrick felt restless, he needed to let off steam not sit quietly working. "I mean, everyone else has to finish and hand in all their homework because it's mid-term grades this week, but I'm too new for that to apply to me." True, at least for art. "I expect I'll have homework next week." True again, he couldn't imagine getting away with this excuse after Friday. "I was thinking maybe I could take Paul and Jenni to the park before dinner, Mrs. Brodie. Am I allowed to do that?"

A grimace briefly flitted across Sally's face at 'am I allowed' but she seemed pleased about his offer.

"I'm sure they'd love it, thanks Patrick. Do make sure you're back before dark. Melissa, I know you have homework," she added as she returned to the kitchen. Liss rolled her eyes at Sally's back, then turned to Patrick.

"God, I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting her to want you to tell her a joke. I didn't hear any today that I'd want to tell to Sally."

"You owe me for that." Patrick pressed home his advantage while it was still fresh in Liss's mind. "Can I sit with you and your friends at lunch break for the rest of the week? If I'm late will you wait for me? Eating by myself in the lunch hall today sucked," Patrick added candidly.

"Yeah okay, you can sit with me and Julia at lunch break."

"And you'll wait for me if I'm late?"

"I'll... Eat slow. I'll be there, okay? I'll stay in the lunch hall if you're late."

"It's a deal."

"Why's everything always a deal with you?"

"Everything's always a deal with everyone, Liss," Patrick sounded puzzled she's ask such a simple question. "Anybody who says different just doesn't want you to spot how bad their deal is for you."

"You just missed Scooby Doo," Jenni said when Patrick found the younger kids in the TV room. He had fallen into a routine of spending a little time with Jenni and Paul every afternoon, including watching the show with them.

"How do you guys feel about getting some fresh air instead of watching TV? You can show me around the neighborhood. Mrs. Brodie said we can go to the playground."

"Yes! Yes! Let's go to the park!" Jenni and Paul were bouncing off the walls in their enthusiasm. Patrick called out a quick 'we'll be back before dark, Mrs. Brodie' as they all headed out the door.

The park was on Monroe, just a block away. They ran there, then Patrick spent a few minutes pushing Jenni on the swing while Paul climbed the slide a few times. Patrick still felt restless.

"Have you guys gotten your Halloween costumes yet? What's the trick-or-treating like in this neighborhood?" Halloween was the day after tomorrow.

Paul shrugged. "We never went trick-or-treating. There's a party at church on Halloween instead." His lisp was improving and Paul was already much less shy about talking.

"Your church is doing a Halloween party?"

"They said on Sunday it's called an All Saints party. You can go in a costume if you want."

"I'm gonna be a fairy princess!" Jenni grinned.

"There's a bunch of costumes in a box in the attic," Paul explained.

"You both going in costumes? Anything in that box big enough for me?"

"Oh yeah, there's all kinds of stuff, all different sizes." Patrick briefly considered going along to the party then ducking out to go trick-or-treating but that would undermine his constant requests for permission.

"If I can get permission would you like to go trick-or-treating with me on Wednesday?"

"Yeah yeah yeah!" Both of the Ng kids were jumping up and down now.

"Okay, okay, no promises, I'll see what I can do," Patrick laughed. "In the mean time we can get in a Halloween mood. Is there a haunted house in the neighborhood?" he asked.

"Yeah!" Paul answered enthusiastically, taking Patrick's hand and pulling him towards the gates of the park. Jenni seemed less keen until Patrick said, "We'll just take a look. Maybe I can show you the gypsy magic that keeps ghosts away."

The 'haunted house' was simply a long-empty place with a very overgrown yard. A couple of hot summers had browned the grass and killed the plants except for the weeds and a tree on one side of the plot. They regarded the blank windows and peeling paint from the sidewalk.

"So what's the story here?" Patrick asked.

"They say this land used to belong to a witch, and they tore down her house, and she cursed the new house they built here, and now her ghost makes all the owners go mad." Paul told the story with relish. Patrick felt it could have been more blood curdling but it made up for the lack of gore by being more imaginative than most haunted house stories he'd heard.

"No, the people all woke up one morning and they'd turned into coyotes, that's why the house is empty." Jenni unexpectedly chimed in.

"No, they went mad and _thought_ they were coyotes." Paul began arguing.

"Hey, whichever story's true it's still pretty cool," Patrick broke in. "Let's take a closer look."

Paul seemed reluctant and trying not to show it. Jenni looked downright scared.

"There's no need to be frightened," he said, rummaging in his pocket. He dug out both of his two-headed coins. "Here, more gypsy magic. They're the same on both sides, see? Both sides the same, as though there is no other side. That's powerful magic right there." Patrick handed them a coin each as he continued, "While you're carrying them bad things can't come through from the _other side_ to bother you. Okay? It works for all kinds of monsters including witches, ghosts and even spirit animals that were people once. I'll let you carry them the whole time we're here but you'll have to give them back when we leave. They stop working if they're out of a gypsy's hands for more than a day." Two-headed coins weren't that hard to acquire if you knew where to go, but Patrick knew for certain that double-sided quarters this good – convincing ones rather than the average joke shop fare – weren't available in Carson Springs.

"Okay!" Paul was all set to go but Jenni still shook her head. Patrick hunkered down onto eye level with them both.

"You guys trust me, right?" This got him a nod from both kids. "You know gypsy magic works, don't you? You beat the mean girl because of gypsy magic." He said this directly to Jenni. "So what's the problem?"

"What about you, Patrick?" Jenni's voice was barely there.

"Aw, sweetie, you worried about me?" Patrick was touched.

"If we got your magic coins, what've you got?"

"I'm a gypsy," Patrick said gently. "I talk to ghosts all the time, the supernatural doesn't scare me, I got all kinds of magic on my side." Well, he was a gypsy of sorts, even if he wasn't Romani; he regularly talked to ghosts as part of the psychic act, pretended to anyways; he certainly didn't fear figments of other people's imaginations; and he had plenty of tricks up his sleeve that looked like magic to a believer in such things. "If you want you can be lookout for me and Paul but it means staying here on your own. Or you can come with us and I'll hold your hand." Jenni really wanted someone to hold her hand right now so she didn't hesitate.

They approached the house. Patrick brushed his outstretched fingers along it. "See? I'm not afraid of a haunted house, even if the ghost used to be a witch." Jenni still looked very uneasy so Patrick led them around the side, to the high fence that blocked off the back yard. There was a small gap between the fence and the gate and when he looked through Patrick caught sight of an apple tree that still had a surprising quantity of fruit on its branches. Something that looked like an ancient walnut tree, obviously older than the house, stood at the very back corner of the plot. Maybe there had been an older house on this site after all. He smiled, thinking of walnut cake and apple pie.

Patrick turned and leaned back casually against the gate, his eyes scanning the neighborhood carefully for anyone who might be watching. "Walnuts and apples," he said, smiling. The plot directly opposite was undeveloped, the next door neighbors hidden behind high fencing on one side and the haunted house on the other. Patrick's hand reached behind him: the gate was latched but not locked. Perfect.

"I'm going in. Who's with me?"

"Isn't it wrong?" Jenni's expression said she certainly thought so. Paul was wavering, more keen to explore than worried about morality. Patrick quickly considered what might make it OK for Jenni. Carrot and stick, he thought. Honey and the hatchet.

"It's called epelslang and the rule is that you only take what you're gonna eat. It's like hunting or fishing only for fruit and nuts not animals and fish. We'll do an apple pie for us to eat after dinner. That means we only pick about six or seven apples. Walnut cake needs six pocketfuls of walnuts, and it so happens we have six pockets between us. Perfect," Patrick grinned.

"Taking epelslang sounds like stealing," Jenni said, the unhappy look not leaving her face.

"No, epelslang is definitely different," Patrick lied. "We can give the pie to Mr. Petersen the school bus driver instead, to say 'thank you' for helping you with the mean girl. It's polite to say 'thank you' with a little gift and everyone loves pie."

"_I_ love pie," Paul protested.

"Well why don't we pick enough apples to bake two pies," Patrick suggested.

"It still sounds like stealing," Jenni said in her smallest voice. She obviously hated disagreeing with Patrick, he fleetingly thought how brave she was to carry on doing it anyway.

"Jenni Ng," Patrick began in a stern voice, "I saw you pick up a pretty leaf from someone's garden this morning to take to show your teacher when we walked to the school bus. How is this different?"

"I don't know. I didn't pick the leaf off the tree?" Being on the receiving end of that voice had broken her resolve.

Patrick's voice softened. "Then let's pick up the windfalls from the ground, we won't pick any apples off the tree. Okay?" Jenni still looked unhappy about it so he added, "Surely it's only stealing if you're taking something away from someone? Look at this place. No-one else wants apples that have been on the ground here, if we don't take them they'll just rot where they fell." Patrick's voice turned brisk. "I vote it's not stealing. How about you Paul?"

"Me too. It's not stealing if it doesn't belong to anyone."

"Two in favor, one against. That means it isn't stealing. That's _democracy_, you have to go along with the result even if you voted the other way." Patrick said it as though it was conclusive.

Jenni still looked uneasy but she finally let Patrick lead her through the gate and joined in when the others started picking up the least-damaged apples from around the tree. They were small but that meant they weren't much bruised from their fall. They sorted out the best twelve and put them into Patrick's jacket: zipped up it didn't even look like he was carrying anything.

"Walnuts next," Patrick said. "Pick up the ones like this, where the outside's split open so you can see the nut inside, but not if it's moldy like this. If you pick off the outside you can fit more in your pocket, but don't worry if it's stuck on." It didn't take long to fill their pockets. Patrick was just as cautious about checking the neighborhood to make sure they weren't observed on the way out as he had been on the way in.

"Now we walk back," he said as Jenni seemed to want to run from the scene of the crime. "We look much less suspicious if we walk."

* * *

"Hi Mrs. Brodie, we're back." Patrick called before going through to the kitchen and unloading apples and walnuts onto the table. The Ngs followed and emptied their pockets too.

"What's this?" Sally asked as they finished offloading their bounty. She sounded curious, not suspicious.

"Epelslang," Jenni explained, looking at Patrick.

"What does that mean?" Sally asked.

"You guys go wash up," Patrick told Jenni and Paul, he didn't want them accidentally giving anything away while he talked to Sally. "I don't really know how to explain it, Mrs. Brodie," Patrick began, moving to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. Yeah, that was accurate even if it wasn't honest. He'd struggle to come up with an explanation for it that didn't involve some kind of confession. "There isn't a word for it in English." That wasn't entirely true but he honestly believed it wasn't serious enough to be 'theft' and the only other word, which he'd heard some British carneys use one time, meant something very different on this side of the Atlantic. He'd picked up 'epelslang' from a Scandinavian showman but Sally would think it was a 'gypsy word'. "I guess you could call it a gypsy tradition, it's something we do before we make a pie, kinda like you pray before eating a meal except it's not religious. Can we make pies, Mrs. Brodie? Please? Paul and Jenni want to make a pie for Mr. Petersen the school bus driver to say 'thank you'. We have enough apples for two pies so we can have one after dinner, too. We'll do it all on the table so we don't get in your way."

"Thanking your school bus driver with a pie is a lovely idea, you two," Sally smiled to Paul and Jenni, who had just walked back into the kitchen. "So is having pie for our dessert today. Are you sure you don't need my help?"

"I know how to cook a pie, Mrs. Brodie," Patrick smiled. "I'll just get everything we need, then we'll be out of your way." Patrick did his trick of moving through Sally's kitchen as if it was his own, picking up utensils and ingredients in a swift single circuit of the cupboards and dropping them into Paul's and Jenni's arms or carrying them himself. Liss was nowhere to be seen but she'd left some books at one end of the table so Patrick set up everything at the other end. Sally managed to swallow her warning about using the small, sharp knife, then failed to swallow her genuine unease when Patrick used the steel to put what he considered a proper edge on it.

"Oh Patrick, be careful! That knife is very sharp now."

Patrick grinned. "Blunt kitchen knives are more dangerous than sharp ones, Mrs Brodie."

Cooking with Patrick seemed to involve a large quantity of quiet giggling, though thankfully the boy was careful with the knife and didn't let Paul or Jenni use it. From what she caught of the conversation – she wasn't really listening in, she told herself, they were sharing the kitchen and he wasn't whispering – Patrick was very keen on telling the younger kids the 'best' way to make 'perfect' pastry as he peeled and sliced the apples, his movements deft and sure, almost graceful. It looked as though at some time in the past someone (Lily, Sally guessed) had put a great deal of thought into how to streamline pie-making into a quick and effortless procedure. Patrick didn't go easy on the kids – he got Jenni to squash up her pastry and roll it out again – but he seemed to aspire to perfection without descending into criticism. It was as though his desire for pie-based excellence had awoken similar feelings in Paul and Jenni also. The end results looked immaculate even before they went into the oven to cook and Sally was astonished both at how quickly it had happened and how little mess there was afterwards.

Everyone agreed it was an excellent apple pie.

That evening as Sally and the Ngs were playing Lego and Patrick was sewing he called over to her, apparently casually.

"Mrs. Brodie, am I allowed to take Paul and Jenni trick-or-treating on Wednesday?"

The question startled Sally. "Patrick, as Christians we–"

"I'm not a Christian, Mrs. Brodie," Patrick interrupted. "Paul and Jenni are Buddhists. How about you, Liss?"

Liss shot him a 'why are you involving me' look then said, "Um, undecided."

"Three nons and an undecided. We'd like to go trick-or-treating. Does your religion forbid it for people who aren't Christians? I'm sure the bible never mentioned Halloween." Paul and Jenni had stopped playing, were watching Sally intently, hope written across their faces.

"All those sweets, they're bad for–"

"It's once a year, Mrs. Brodie, 'bad for you' is for everyday things, not for holidays. It's the second-best day of the year for kids. You get to dress up and show off. Grown-ups are nice to you and give you sweets."

"There's a party at church–"

"It's not the same, ma'am. Going out, meeting the neighbors, showing off your costume – it's a kind of freedom. It makes you feel part of the community like no other holiday does. All things you don't get going to a party."

"I'm not sure I–"

"I'm not asking you to _participate_, Mrs. Brodie, if you feel it's against your religion. That would be hypocritical of me. We could take the Ngs out, me and Liss." 'Freedom' and especially 'participate' had hit home, Patrick could see Sally was wavering. "You used to like trick-or-treating when you were little, Mrs. Brodie."

"It's different these days, you hear about–"

"You hear stories about apples with razor blades in, horror stuff like that. I can look after Jenni and Paul, Mrs. Brodie. I know what trouble looks like, I know how to avoid it." Sally was close to being persuaded, so Patrick added, "We could just do an hour after school and still go to your church party."

"Do you really want to go trick-or-treating?" Sally asked the Ngs.

"Yeah yeah yeah!" Paul couldn't have been more enthusiastic. To his surprise Jenny glanced at Patrick before she said a more sedate, "Yes please, Sally." She must have been more uncomfortable than he thought at the haunted house this afternoon.

"I suppose… If you go before the party at church…" Sally began. Paul and Jenni jumped up and started dancing round the room, Lego forgotten. Sally took them up to the attic to pick out their costumes. Patrick grinned as he finished his last collar, then looked up to see Liss staring at him.

"What?" he asked, but she just shook her head and kept quiet.

* * *

Tuesday morning found Patrick unobtrusively watching the lockers. Yellow Sweater had arrived at school before Patrick but he hung around outside until one of his friends arrived. His locker was number seventy-two. Andy Williams arrived relatively late, as he had yesterday, and it was easy to corner him by his locker and ask for a word. Yellow Sweater and the other jocks had long gone.

"Andy! Hey man, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, Patrick, go ahead." There was nothing but polite curiosity on Andy's face.

"What's the name of your friend in the yellow sweater?"

Andy's face seemed to crumple, his eyes looked anywhere except at Patrick, as if he was looking for an escape route.

"Aw, man, how did you know it was him? He's gonna think I told you," Andy added, not realizing that was exactly what he was doing. "I'm sorry, I tried to tell him it wasn't going to work, that you wouldn't mind sitting with girls but he wouldn't listen." Andy was talking rapidly and looked positively hunted. Patrick was astonished but kept his face neutral and remained silent, let Andy get it all off his chest.

"When he said he had a better prank I didn't know what he was going to do with the paint, I swear, or I would have stopped him, honest. Look, he's a jackass but he's our scorer, his big brother was team captain last year and he's friends with a lot of the jocks." Andy paused, thoughtfully. "Actually those guys are kinda jackasses too." Patrick allowed the silence to extend. "He's Rico, Enrico Montez. I never liked him, his pranks are kinda cruel rather than funny. Never liked any of them, really."

"You didn't say anything to Ms. Novak."

"No because... well... I couldn't rat him out." Andy looked so miserable Patrick couldn't sustain his feelings of anger. Andy might be a jock but he wasn't that kind of a jock. In his own way he was as out of his element at school as Patrick himself.

"Andy. Dude. You need to get yourself some better friends."

"I know, right? That's what my parents say, too. I didn't realize what they were all like at first, then I was kinda stuck with them because of the basketball. I mean, they're a good team and all but off the court a lot of them are real jerks. And the other guys who hang around with us, like Rico, they're worse. If they're not on the team they act like they got something to prove." Andy was looking at Patrick now, his expression full of hope but tinged with trepidation.

"I'm only gonna be at this school for a few months, man," Patrick began.

"But we could hang out while you're here, yeah? You said yourself I need to find some new friends." It sounded like Andy hadn't even tried to hide the pleading note in his voice.

"Why me, Andy? Lots of kids want to be friends with jocks."

Andy looked uncomfortable as he said, "Yeah, and if I got dropped from the team tomorrow they'd want to be friends with my replacement instead of me." He shrugged. "You're new here, I figured you were looking for new friends too, real friends not phonies. And when I saw you yesterday I remembered you from Stoney Ridge. You were cool."

This made Patrick smile. "I was never one of the cool kids."

"You gotta be kidding me! You guys lived at the carnival! I mean, you couldn't get any more cool than that! Everyone in the school thought the carney kids were cool. And you could do card tricks, not lame ones like from a kid's magic set but real ones. You could do 'Find the Lady', I learned never to play that game for real because of you."

Yeah, Patrick thought, stuck in foster care, dad in jail, having to come here every day. My life is really cool. Out loud he said, "Ha, don't ever tell anyone that was my fault, you'll get me expelled from card sharp school."

Andy chuckled.

"So can we be friends?"

It could still be a line, Patrick thought. He doesn't seem that good of an actor, though. Aloud he said, "Sure, why not."

Andy's answering look was relieved and happy. The guy seemed incapable of feeling anything that didn't show up instantly on his face. It was refreshing. Patrick had wanted people to hang out with, Andy without the other jocks could be a start.

"Cool! Thanks, man! You, uh, coming down to home room?"

"Where you gonna sit, Andy?" Patrick asked.

"Not with those guys." Andy's face said it all, determination, a little nervousness but still relieved and happy. "Say, what classes you got today?"

Patrick smiled back. "Math – that's probably a remedial class with the sixth graders – industrial arts, science, phys ed. How about you?"

"Same, except math is seventh grade for me. I, uh, didn't think you'd be taking a remedial class...?"

"Nor did I," Patrick replied grimly as they entered their home room.

Andy swapped his desk near the back with a kid who was wearing a red baseball cap then took the place next to Patrick, leaving Tran's desk free on the other side.

"Hi Patrick!" Ashley smiled, then looked surprised to see Andy.

"Hey Ashley," Patrick replied casually. "You know Andy Williams, don't you?"

"Hi," Andy said, suddenly tongue-tied.

"Hi Andy. Yeah, I know you from the basketball team. You moving to this desk now?"

"Uh. Yeah. I know Patrick from elementary."

I just met Ashley yesterday," Patrick explained. "She warned me not to sit at Tran's desk. Who's Tran?" Andy and Ashley shared a look.

"Uh, He's... an angry kid," Andy ventured.

"He's in foster care because his mom's in prison, she was in a gang and she was arrested last year. He's scary, gets into trouble, spends more than half his time in ISS, that's why his desk is empty so much. What?" Ashley asked as both boys stared at her. "My mom's editor of the Carson Springs Tribune, they report on this kind of stuff all the time. I have to listen to her go on about anything to do with the school or its students, especially if it's a kid in my class. She thinks I'm interested, or thinks I should be. It's not like I'm some kind of gossip or anything like that."

It sounded exactly like gossip to Patrick. He wondered how long it would be before she had a similar story about him. There couldn't have been much of a story yet but if the Governor and DA were looking to get good publicity from his dad's jail time there sure as hell would be a story in the paper soon, maybe after his dad's sentencing on Wednesday, probably not just the local paper either. If they were friends maybe he could persuade Ashley not to spread it around, kids wouldn't be reading the newspaper. Yeah, that might be an achievable goal, if she really did like him. "What's ISS?" Patrick held Ashley's eyes while he asked it.

"In-school suspension. It's like solitary confinement but with extra homework."

"Why don't they just expel him?" Patrick was still directing his questions to Ashley. Andy was being quiet anyway so his preference, while obvious, wasn't too overt. He had been idly contemplating getting himself expelled so he didn't have to go to school. If this Tran guy hadn't managed it in spite of being angry and scary – violent? – he wondered whether anything he was prepared to do would be enough. Ashley's next words confirmed his worst suspicions.

"Carson Springs school district voted for a 'no expulsions' rule last year. Problem kids get transferred to county schools, but they're all full now, or juvie if they commit a crime or skip school enough. Tran doesn't skip school. I reckon they'll get him into juvie eventually, he just hasn't been caught doing anything illegal yet."

Well, wasn't Ashley a fount of information, Patrick thought sourly, even while he maintained an interested smile and kept up eye contact. He had been thinking about what Sam said about high school: 'mostly I wasn't there.' That wouldn't work for him if skipping school could put him in juvie. ISS sounded like a revolving door if Tran was in and out of it on a regular basis. Patrick's ideal school would be half the time picking up the tricks of the trade from his dad and the other half educating himself in the nearest city library. Failing that... ISS would involve repeat offending. He needed to get hold of the school rules, see what he'd have to do to get ISS without risking juvie. He only had to maintain it for six months, after all…

"That's fascinating, Ashley–" Patrick began but was interrupted by Mrs. Bolton entering the classroom. His second day at school began.

* * *

Patrick was indeed enrolled in the sixth grade math class. Mrs. Smith gave him a book and got him to introduce himself to the class but then she turned out to be good at teaching. The rest of the class were set a test to do with their mid-term grades so Smith had some time to spend with Patrick. The class had been studying algebra since the end of August and Smith gave him a crash course. Patrick listened, learned, understood, completed the exercises from the first four chapters of his new book as Smith covered each topic with him in turn – and got almost all the answers correct. Smith for her part made no assumptions, wasn't condescending and she picked up the pace when she saw how easily Patrick picked up new concepts. By the time Smith had to collect everyone's test papers they had been chatting easily about the areas Patrick needed to study in order to move up to the seventh grade class.

Industrial arts was next, Patrick met up with Andy outside the workshop. Ashley was already there and they were settling at her bench when Yellow Sweater came over. He didn't even glance at Patrick.

"You not talking to us any more, Andy?" he began without preamble.

Andy glanced at Ashley and Patrick before he replied. "I told Jonny before Math class, Rico. My dad's been telling me to get some new friends for a week, ever since that thing with Peter Thornbury. We're talking now, aren't we? I got no beef with you guys but Dad was saying yesterday he wouldn't let me stay on the team any more if I didn't make a change."

Rico didn't have anything to say to that but he gave Patrick a cold look before he moved back to sit at the bench with the other jocks, their heads together in quiet discussion.

"Peter Thornbury?" Patrick asked.

"He isn't at this school any more." Ashley was talking, Andy looked grateful that he was off the hook for the moment. "Last Wednesday some bullies were chasing him, he climbed up a tree to get away and couldn't get down, so they left him there. No-one found him until the next morning. He had to go to hospital and he's transferred to Ruger now. But no-one knew who the bullies were, Peter said he didn't recognize them. Was it Rico and that bunch of thugs?"

"I don't know, I wasn't there, Wednesday last week was the game against Ruger so none of the team were there. Rico didn't do the scores that day, so it could have been him. My dad thinks it was him, the guys had been ragging Peter for a while and my dad knows Peter's dad. That's when he said I needed to change my friends."

"Rico's idea?"

"I don't know, man, but he didn't like Peter. They're usually his idea."

"Just now, the way Rico talked, it sounded like it was his gang." Patrick was very sure about this.

"Nah, man, he's just the scorer."

"Not the basketball team, I mean the gang. To jocks on the team he'll just be the ideas guy but to the other kids he's the boss. He thinks of himself like that, anyway."

"I never thought of it like that before. He _is_ the ideas guy..."

"And you say that because you're on the team." Patrick didn't have time to expand on his theory because at that point the teacher walked in, the stern grey-haired man who had taken over from Fairey yesterday. Patrick's heart sank.

"Mr. Mayer," Andy whispered, nodding at the teacher. "He's one of the Vice-Principals. He's strict, won't let you goof off in class but he lets you talk, like Novak in art class."

As with art class, everyone else was finishing their metalwork projects. Mayer didn't make Patrick introduce himself to the class but he did take him to one side to talk.

"Patrick Jane," Mayer began in an appraising tone, "I remember you from yesterday. I trust we won't have any trouble in this class."

"I trust we won't either, sir," Patrick replied earnestly. "I never meant to cause trouble yesterday. I had no idea Mrs. Fairey would mind so much that she was wrong about something."

This earned him a long stare that was probably supposed to make him feel uncomfortable. "Did someone else in the class put you up to it?"

Patrick thought that was an odd question. "No sir, she was telling everyone to write down the wrong thing so when she gave me the opportunity to speak I read out the clause about impeachment of the President from my copy of the Constitution."

"You didn't interrupt her?"

"No, sir. She invited me to address the class."

"Did anybody tell you anything about Mrs. Fairey beforehand?" Meyer was really working this point.

"No sir, I never talked to anyone about her. It was my first day, I didn't really have anyone to talk to." Patrick was only trying to make the point that he didn't know any gossip about Fairey. Nevertheless he was pleased to see Mayer's expression soften a little when he said it. The man wasn't immune to feeling a little human sympathy.

"Seems like you've made a friend now, though." Mayer nodded towards Andy.

"Yes sir, that's what it seems like."

"Hmm." Meyer seemed thoughtful for a moment then abruptly changed the subject. "Have you done any metalworking before, Patrick?"

"I can do soldering," Patrick said, thinking about the microphone repairs he had carried out that summer, "and, uh, I helped my dad construct a new lighting gantry last year."

"That sounds interesting. Could you draw me a diagram of what you made and write a few sentences about your role in the construction?"

"Yes, sir." That sounded easy enough.

"I'll be round to review your work in a little while, you can explain it all to me then." With that Mayer moved off around the workshop to check on the work the other kids were doing.

Patrick chatted sporadically with Ashley and Andy through the rest of the class. Ashley was new too, her mom had moved to Carson Springs from upstate to take on the editor job, she had started school in August and didn't know anything about Fairey. All Andy knew was that the teacher had been off work for a lot of the previous year. Mr. Mayer checked up on him about halfway through and again at the end, apparently surprised both times that Patrick had not only complied with his instructions but made a good job of it. Patrick wasn't a skilled draftsman but his diagram had been clearly labelled and his written description of the contribution he had made was detailed and precise. Mayer knew Fairey wasn't a great teacher: maybe he'd misjudged Patrick yesterday because she'd been so upset. For his part Patrick had feared reprisals as soon as he saw Mayer, was glad simply to get through the class without racking up another detention.

Much to Patrick's amusement Andy was shy around Liss and her friends at lunch break. The kid really didn't know what to say to girls. Julia turned out to be a tall, pretty girl whose hair was braided in corn rows with beads in various shades of green at the end of each little plait. She had fully embraced the new craze so she and Patrick spent most of lunch exchanging jokes as Liss thought up increasingly unlikely events – the Podiatrists' New Years Ball, the DMV Employee of the Year awards, Fire and Rescue's Annual Pot-Roast Dinner – around which to theme their jokes. They were joined after a while by two other pretty girls, friends of Liss and Julia, whose arrival transformed Andy's monosyllabic contributions into utter silence. At the end of lunch Patrick noticed that Ashley had been sitting at a table behind him, alone. Patrick sauntered over.

"Hey Ashley? You didn't want to sit with us?"

"I didn't know those girls and, well…" She looked embarrassed. Patrick wondered if she thought he had been flirting with them – they'd certainly done plenty of laughing.

"Liss Seacroft is my foster sister, the others were her friends," Patrick explained. "I didn't know them either until just now. You could have sat with us, Ashley. It would have been nice." Patrick smiled at her and was gratified to see her blush just a little. "Do you have science class now?"

"Yes, science lab one, you got science now too?"

"Yeah. Why don't you show me where it is." Andy trailed behind them, still mute, as they headed over to class.

Science class was dull – plants and photosynthesis and yet another text book – but Mrs. Yates at least seemed competent. It was uneventful from Patrick's point of view and gave him a chance to flirt properly with Ashley. The final class of the day, physical education, was held indoors in the gym. Andy seemed to find everything effortless, more at ease than Patrick had seen him in any class so far. Patrick in turn could climb like a monkey and made a reasonable attempt at everything else. The girls and boys segregated themselves, so Patrick simply made sure he looked over towards Ashley as he chatted with Andy. By the end of the school day Patrick had a clearer idea of what Andy was like and had become much less suspicious of his motives. He also felt confident enough of Ashley's feelings now to accompany her to her locker. When she closed it and turned he was standing just a little too close in front of her, smiling into her eyes. She started, then started to blush.

"I'll, er, see you tomorrow then, Patrick?" she managed.

"You never had a boyfriend before, Ashley?" he asked, still smiling into her eyes. She blushed more deeply and shook her head. Patrick gently lifted two fingers to her chin, turned her head slightly and gave her the lightest kiss on her cheek. His hand moved to barely touch her forearm. "Would you like to have a boyfriend?" Still mute and wide-eyed, she nodded. He ran his fingers down to her hand, gave it the gentlest squeeze before letting go. "Okay then. I'll see you tomorrow, Ashley."

She broke out into a smile, still blushing, nodded again and managed a strangled "See you, Patrick," before she headed off. Patrick watched her down the corridor.

"Did you just ask her out?" Andy sounded deeply impressed.

"Yeah."

"Wow, man! That was quick!"

"Yeah…" Patrick would have preferred Abigail the Cat Alphabet Girl or Liss's friend Julia but he wanted Ashley on his side, not casually spreading gossip about him. He was pretty sure she would go home and tell her mom all about him, including that he was in foster care and how he had kissed her. By Thursday her mom would have published the report about his dad going to jail and whatever the Governor had to say about it to win himself some votes. If she didn't make Ashley drop Patrick by Friday there were all sorts of ways he could move things along next week and still stay friends. In the mean time he could practice giving Ashley a pleasantly romantic 'first-boyfriend' experience and work on his contingency planning too.

"You made it look so easy. I never know what to say to girls."

"Yeah? You shouldn't have any trouble getting girls, Andy. You just need a bit more confidence. Girls aren't so hard to talk to."

"You, uh, had a lot of girlfriends?"

"First rule of girlfriends, never kiss and tell," he replied, grinning. "You catching a school bus?"

"Yeah, I gotta run. Seeya tomorrow, Patrick!"

Patrick just waved. He dropped his own stuff in his locker, looked around at the rapidly-clearing corridor and did a little more exploring around the school before he headed over to the city library.


	11. Chapter 11

Patrick had gotten permission to go to Stoney Ridge after dinner so he left as soon as possible, even before the washing up was finished, which earned him a dirty look from Liss.

Patrick visited the Barsockys first, then cycled over to the Ruskin house. He propped the bike against the porch and climbed up to knock on the front door. Danny answered, a lock pick in his hand; Patrick gave him a brief hug.

"Hi Paddy! Got a new technique, it's _fast_. Real fast." Danny let him in looking smug.

"Ani here?"

"Nope, just me. Nannie's in the office. Why?"

"Got an idea for the gang, late tonight if we can organize it in time, a little shady but a lot of fun. Seven man team, I already got Pete, he's wheels and welding gear. I want you working locks, especially if your new technique is as fast as you say it is. I need four lookouts, you can choose them if you like. We'll be starting around eleven thirty, should be back by one but don't pick anyone younger than you if you can avoid it, they gotta stay alert and they gotta keep quiet about it afterwards. Everyone needs a walkie talkie, the three inside will need flashlights as well. I got everything else covered, can you borrow all that from the Ruskin gear? If you're interested, I mean."

"Yeah, Paddy, I can get the radios and flashlights if you buy new batteries for them all. What's this about?"

"I can get the batteries," Patrick nodded. "It's… a prank. At my school this guy's idea of a prank was throwing paint and making sure I got the blame. I want to pay him back and show them all what a real prank looks like." There was a great deal of humor in Patrick's grin.

"You want me to break into your school?"

"Quickly, quietly, carefully," Patrick nodded. "No damage, that's important. Prank, not criminal damage to property. You still in?"

"Yeah!" Danny was grinning. "Welding? This prank sounds epic, Paddy. I gotta be there."

"This one's for doing, not talking about, Danny," Patrick warned. "I gotta keep out of trouble because of dad. No talking about it in-state, no talking about it at all for a year and a day. Can you do your new trick in gloves? We don't want to leave _anything_ behind." These were traditional rules for cons, not pranks. The clandestine activities of the gang had certainly never merited following con rules before, or the need to avoid leaving fingerprints. Danny whistled.

"You serious, Paddy? For a prank?"

"An epic prank," Patrick grinned. "Everyone will want to say they were there. They can, once I'm not in the frame any more. Not in California, not while I'm at the school. Any of the youngsters got colored chalk? Not just white?"

"Yeah, Mary Brown was drawing on the ground outside her trailer yesterday."

"I'll head over there now, Danny, I'll be back in about ten minutes. You gonna show me your new trick when I get back?"

"We don't need to rehearse for this prank of yours?"

Patrick shook his head. "Three with skills on the inside, four lookouts on the outside, people who know not to talk afterwards. Tonight's about me – us – not getting caught, ever, that's why we need so many on lookout and to keep schtum afterwards. There's no-one on site overnight but I don't know if there's regular patrols. I need people who want to be there, people who'll stay alert and won't start singing if the heat gets turned up. I think it's too shady for your sister to want in but I'd like people as reliable as her. Dougie, maybe, and three others."

"Okay, no problem, I know who to ask. What you gonna show me if I show you my lock trick, Paddy?"

"Coin trick?"

"Find the Lady."

"That takes a lot of practice, Danny Boy. You got time for that?"

Danny scowled. "Don't call me Danny Boy. Anyway, you got time to practice locks?"

Patrick chuckled. "Not really but I'd still like to see your new move. Yes, I'll teach you Find the Lady, if that's what you want. You won't be able to do it, though, not convincingly, not if you don't put the time in. I can show you a real lucrative coin trick instead?"

"Find the Lady."

"It's a deal. Your loss. Back in ten."

* * *

Patrick sat in an armchair, fascinated both by Danny's intricate-looking pick set on the coffee table in front of them and by the fact that Danny had just selected the simplest pick to demonstrate his latest trick. He was very interested after his own slow work opening the shed locks at the Brodies last week.

Danny picked up the large padlock in his left hand.

"Hey, aren't you gonna offer your guest a drink first?"

"You know where the kitchen is, Paddy," Danny chuckled.

Patrick shook his head. "Y'know, you'll always be small-time with that attitude, Danny."

Danny snorted a laugh, then stopped. "You're serious?"

"Oh yeah. You gotta act civilized to make money out of rich people. You should only let people think you're different when it suits you. Most of the time, you want them to think that you're just like them, or even just that little bit more like them than they are. The devil's in the details, Danny. Rich people are used to everyone around them being polite. You need to do it automatically, not have to think about it."

Danny was suspicious. "That's a line. You just can't be bothered to fetch your own soda."

Patrick shook his head. "It's not a line. I'm not lazy. I don't mind fetching my own soda." Patrick stood as he said this. "I'm just saying you'll never make the big time if you're lazy. You shouldn't ever make your guests get their own drink, no matter who the guest is," he explained, "Laziness is sloppy, it encourages bad habits, corner cutting. That kind of attitude can end up biting you on the ass. You want a soda?"

"Lemme get you a drink," Danny said thoughtfully, getting up himself and waving Patrick back to his chair. "Coke?"

"Thanks, Danny, I'd love a Coke."

When he returned Danny showed Patrick the padlock and pick, just like a magician shows the audience that there's nothing in the hat right before he pulls out the rabbit.

"Watch this." Danny pushed the pick into the very back of the lock, braced, then with a noise like a very short zipper being opened the pick was out of the lock and the lock was open. He closed the lock and opened it faster – Patrick estimated it took around a second, it might even have been as fast as using the actual key. Danny turned around and opened it again purely by touch with his hands behind his back, then again with his arms extended over his head, still not looking at the lock.

"Show me, slower, show me exactly what you're doing there, Danny." Patrick's eyes were gleaming, his focus completely on the lock and pick in Danny's hands.

Danny grinned. "Not so sloppy now, huh?"

Patrick shook his head slowly. "That was beautiful, Danny, absolutely the sweetest move I've ever seen. Faster and quieter than using a rake though you could still hear it, not the move to go for if you need total silence but I've never seen faster…" Patrick tailed off then looked Danny in the eye. "You gotta show it me slowly, Danny, let me see what you're doing there."

Danny shook his head. "Not see, this one you gotta feel," but then he leaned over the table and showed it slowly to Patrick, explaining exactly how it worked, why it worked even better fast. He then let Patrick have a couple of goes, guiding his hands as he positioned the pick, letting him know what to feel for. In return Patrick showed Danny how to bend the slight curve into his cards, how to hold them in a loose stack, and the all-important flick that let him throw down the top card while making it look like it was the bottom one.

"That's the key, Danny, it's where your fingers are when your hand does the flick. You need to practice in front of a mirror, it looks completely different from in front than from your point of view. You have to make sure any movements of your fingers are completely invisible from the front when you do the flick."

Both boys practiced each other's trick for a while in companionable silence.

"Hey, Paddy!" Danny suddenly began, "I did it that time! Look, tell me if you can see my fingers move when I'm doing that flick thing."

"Nah, you're still too obvious. Getting better though," Patrick added grudgingly. "Maybe you'll be there in, you know, twenty or thirty years." Danny threw a cushion at Patrick, knocking his picks all over the floor. As he was retrieving everything Patrick casually added, "Got a new girlfriend today."

"What's she like?" This was Angela, from the doorway. She came in, hugged Patrick then flopped onto the big couch.

"Hi Ani, I didn't see you come in. She's…" Patrick thought for a moment. "Gossipy. Bright. Kind. She's got a good memory and her mom's the editor of the Carson Springs Tribune so she's a good source of gossip. Lady Di haircut. Horrible dress sense, I think her mom still chooses her clothes for her. I'm her first boyfriend." Patrick grinned.

Angela shook her head. "Remind me never to ask you to describe me, Paddy." Danny snorted with laughter.

* * *

Andy's bus was even later than usual on Wednesday morning so Patrick entered home room alone. He quickly scanned it, wary of the jock wannabees. Jock wannabees, he mused. Jockabees? Oh yeah, that was a good name for them, he liked the sound of that, he'd remember that one. He had read the graffiti written in colored chalk at the main school entrance, then seen the crowd filling the corridor around the seventh grade lockers. He hadn't bothered trying to work his way to the front of the crowd for a closer look.

Rico wasn't wearing his signature yellow sweater, he was in a much more anonymous gray sweatshirt today and looked royally pissed. Mrs. Bolton wasn't here yet but there was a new boy sitting at the desk next to Patrick's, in the space that had been empty so far this week. Patrick assumed this was Tran. The kid was huge, tall even sitting in his seat, muscular rather than lanky like Andy – and scowling. The whole class was buzzing, presumably talking about the graffiti and the locker, but they sounded more subdued than they had yesterday. Plenty of his classmates were also stealing glances at Tran even though he was just sitting there. Patrick noticed with an inner sigh that the jockabees had spotted him, one of them even pointed him out to Rico with a stifled, humorless laugh, though it didn't seem to improve Rico's mood. Patrick moved out of the doorway.

Andy had said Tran was an angry guy and the big kid at Tran's desk looked all that and more. Ashley was sitting at her desk in the row behind him. Yeah, Patrick thought, much better to start there than going straight to his desk. He gave her a brilliant smile and headed over.

The kid in the red baseball cap who had swapped desks with Andy yesterday brushed past the big kid on the way to the back of the room. Big Kid rounded on him, emitting a long chain of profanities. He didn't shout but used a low, menacing rumble that managed to be much worse. Baseball Cap looked as though he was going to throw up, not daring to move until the tirade was over and Big Kid let him go. The guy doesn't like people invading his personal space, Patrick concluded, and he seemed to have more personal space than most. Patrick usually dealt with angry guys on the Midway by keeping the hell out of their way and being as polite as possible when he couldn't avoid them. In the absence of any other ideas he would go with that here, too.

Being careful not to go anywhere near Big Kid, Patrick approached Ashley.

"Hi." Patrick perched on the edge of her desk and idly stroked his fingers over hers. She was looking… Shy? Possibly, here in front of everyone else in the class, so he kept his voice low. "What did your mom say when you told her you had a boyfriend now?"

"She said I was too young to be kissing boys," she replied, whispering. Yeah, he was right, Ashley was nervous talking like this in the crowded classroom and she had indeed told her mom everything that happened between them yesterday. Her mom's attitude made sense to him, too. Anyone who still bought fussy 'little girl' clothes for her daughter would definitely think she was too young to have a boyfriend. That gave him a whole range of Plan Bs in the unlikely event that by the end of the week the mom hadn't spotted his connection with his dad, or didn't object strongly enough to carney boys whose fathers were jailbirds.

"Did you tell her that in fact I did all the kissing? Not that I object to being the kissee rather than the kisser, you understand. Not at all. Feel free, any time." He leaned just a fraction closer. "That's a hint, by the way. I'm just saying, in case you didn't spot it."

Ashley gave a low giggle. "Patrick! We're in the middle of a classroom! You're terrible!"

"You wound me to the core, milady," he grinned back. "I've been laboring under the illusion that my girlfriend liked being kissed by her Knight in Shining Armor. Now she's telling me I'm terrible. I am cast into the depths of despair. I may have to throw myself under a bus. Or maybe just, y'know, practice kissing her more." He had leaned in closer to whisper this last phrase, eyes twinkling.

"Ssh!" she whispered back urgently, glancing around.

"Okay then, who's Prankmaster Jeneral? Apart from someone who can't spell, I mean," Patrick asked casually. "I read the graffiti by the main entrance. Does that happen a lot here?"

"No, it's never happened before! Nobody knows who he is!" Ashley replied, speaking louder as though happier with this change of subject. "No-one's heard of him before today. Did you see what he did?"

"Kind of. It looked like someone had painted a locker door yellow but I couldn't really see, there were too many people in the corridor there. Why, what did he do?"

"He didn't paint the door, he turned the locker around and painted the back! That locker door's facing the wall now, and no-one can work out how he did it. The lockers hook to the ones on each side, you can't just pull them out. Even if you could, when you turn a locker round you get two hooks on one side and two holes on the other, but that locker's still hooked in somehow so they can't simply pull it out and turn it back. The janitor said it will take him two days to sort it all out."

"But Prankmaster Jeneral did it overnight. That's pretty cool, pulling off an impossible prank, even if he can't spell. Whose locker got pranked?"

"Rico Montez!" They both looked over to Rico, who was trying not to notice how many stares he was getting from other people in the class.

"Andy said yesterday he comes up with the ideas for pranks," Patrick whispered. "There must be a lot of kids who want to prank him back. Looks as though he doesn't much like being on the receiving end."

"Principal Goole said whoever did this will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. He was pretty mad."

"So they really have no idea who did it?" Mrs. Bolton entered the classroom just as he asked this question. Ashley shook her head but didn't speak.

"Is that Tran?" he mouthed silently, pointing at Big Kid's back as he got up off her desk. Ashley nodded so Patrick gave her a quick thumbs-up sign, winked at her then moved off to his seat, approaching it from the opposite side to Tran. The new boy gave Patrick a slow look that clearly said, 'Go ahead, punk, make my day.' Patrick gave Tran a sincere friendly smile. Confidence, he thought. If in doubt, fake it.

"Uh, hi," he said. "I'm Patrick. I just started school on Monday. I was told I had to sit here." Patrick indicated his desk with a small gesture. Tran grunted and looked away. The jockabees were looking a little disappointed. Patrick felt relieved.

Mrs. Bolton finished fussing around her desk, stood to face the class and spoke, projecting her voice clearly above the chatter.

"Okay everyone, settle down now. That includes you, Michelle! Whatever you're saying can wait until after registration." The class quietened and she began calling out names. About halfway through an announcement came over the PA system.

"Patrick Jane to the Principal's office immediately, please. Patrick Jane."

Patrick stood up. He guessed from the silent stares of his classmates and the surprised look on Mrs. Bolton's face that this wasn't a social invitation. Rico was eyeing him suspiciously and Patrick briefly wondered if the Principal suspected him of being Prankmaster Jeneral. He was sure they hadn't left any evidence behind last night and there had been no witnesses. He let a mildly surprised look creep over his face. Ashley was wide-eyed. He picked up his bag – bad move! It swung across his shoulder against Tran, not hard but with a solid bump, way more than Baseball Cap had done. Bolton was sitting at the teacher's desk staring directly at him as he froze but Patrick suspected being in full view wouldn't stop Tran from beating him up if he wanted to.

"Sorry, man! I just – that's me on the announcement, Patrick Jane. I guess the Principal wants to see me about something." Patrick was babbling as he edged around the far side of his desk, cursing himself that he hadn't waited until he was outside before shouldering his bag. If Tran went for him now he would at least have to deal with some obstacles first. Mrs. Bolton had closed the door when she came in but if he could make it to the corridor he could probably get away, Tran looked too big to be fast on his feet… To his astonishment, however, Tran flashed him a swift grin.

"See if you can get close enough to take a pop at Goole! He gets _real_ scared when he thinks you're gonna do that!" Tran's voice, though deep, was very quiet, much softer than when he had been cussing out Baseball Cap. However there was still violence in his demeanor, his shoulders tense and his right hand bunched into a fist. No doubt about it, Tran was intimidating. Patrick nevertheless managed a smile.

"Thanks for the tip, big guy! I'll see what I can do," Patrick whispered back.

"Patrick Jane, you better not be chatting to your friends instead of going to the Principal's office," Mrs. Bolton warned.

"No, ma'am," he replied, and headed out of the classroom just as Andy arrived.

"What's happening, man? I heard the announcement, why you gotta go see the Principal? Are you Prankmaster Jeneral?" Andy asked.

Patrick turned, shrugged and murmured, "Nope. I have no idea why he wants to see me." Damn, if Andy made that connection Rico certainly would. There was no evidence, Patrick was sure of it, but it was a hell of a coincidence being called to the Principal's office now. The last thing he saw before the door closed was Tran flashing him another fierce grin. O-k-a-y… That had been weird. Patrick agreed with Ashley, Tran was scary. Rico wasn't scary but he could become a problem if he thought Patrick was behind the prank on his locker. If Principal Goole thought so too then he might be in the kind of trouble that his dad had told him to avoid. 'Prosecute to the full extent of the law'. That was a phrase pregnant with unpleasant possibilities, though surely criminal damage to an old school locker couldn't be that serious.

Patrick looked around and realized he had no idea where the Principal's office was. There was no-one around that he could ask. He briefly contemplated going back in to ask Mrs. Bolton but decided against it, he didn't want to look foolish in front of the jockabees and he needed time to think. Instead he stuck his hands in his pockets, took a deep breath and decided to head in the direction of the school office. He'd heard of hall monitors, he expected he'd run into one sooner or later and if not then the ladies from the office that he'd met on his first day would surely be able to direct him to the Principal's office.

* * *

Patrick announced himself to the woman sitting at the desk outside Principal Goole's office and was told to sit and wait. He had no problem waiting but the area was far too interesting for sitting. The trophy cabinet stood along one wall and he filled several minutes reading what they were for and who had won them. The lady at the desk spotted what he was doing while she was listening to something on the phone but simply smiled at him and nodded her permission for him to continue. There were posters here and information leaflets, some pinned to the walls and others arranged on a small table. One of these informed him that the school had a chess club which met on Thursdays. Well that was the best news he'd had all week. He'd been reading books on chess ever since Saturday and was suddenly very keen to try out the four-move checkmate mentioned in a few of them. He held up a copy of the chess club poster to the lady at the desk, his eyebrows raised. When she nodded encouragingly at him he pocketed it. She didn't seem too bad, busy but friendly enough.

As the minutes stretched he did sit, taking out a book from his bag. The English assignment was to pick another poem and write a hundred words about why he liked it, to be read out in class along with the chosen poem on Friday. It didn't take him long to read every poem in the book. His favorite by far was Emily Dickinson's 'Tell all the truth but tell it slant'. It seemed to him she and his aunt Lily saw the world the same, would probably have been friends if they'd ever met. 'You spin a stronger thread with truth than lies' had been one of Lily's favorite sayings and she was even better than Patrick at being thoroughly dishonest while only employing words that were technically true. She was better at getting her own way too. She'd been the only person he could think of who had ever gotten Alex to change his mind. Patrick started to piece together ideas in his head for this little essay, intending to make a plan before writing the assignment. This was his first opportunity to use what he'd learned from Zack the Library Guy on Saturday and he was looking forward to trying it. He was interrupted when the Principal called him into the office.

Principal Goole turned out to be a balding man who wore a cheap blue suit and a severe expression. He sat at his desk and motioned Patrick to sit in the chair opposite by jabbing his pen towards it.

"Patrick Jane." Goole was reading the contents of a slim green folder rather than speaking directly to him. "Do you know why you have been called to my office this morning?"

"No, sir." He was telling the absolute truth. If this was about The Locker Incident he wasn't going to make the same mistake as Andy yesterday and start singing at the first question. It still might be about something else, he hadn't had a chance to ask Mrs. Bolton about his detentions yet and it could be that he'd done something else wrong, maybe kissing wasn't allowed in school and he'd been spotted yesterday. His reply caught Goole's attention, the man was looking directly at Patrick now.

"Really, Mr. Jane? You are given a detention in _every_ class on your first day here, then on your second day you start _skipping_ those detentions. But nothing springs to mind, hmm?"

Detentions? Patrick's mind raced. Why the hell would Goole care about those today? Shouldn't his attention be on catching Prankmaster Jeneral at the moment? Maybe this was a feint before he weighed in about The Locker Incident. Or maybe the Principal wasn't getting anywhere with The Locker Incident so Goole was looking elsewhere for a quick win. After all, that was what the Governor and District Attorney were doing with his dad. That reminded him that his dad was being sentenced today, he would telephone Taylor after school to find out how it went. Focus, he told himself. Right now Goole was interested in the detentions.

"Well, sir, I didn't exactly skip detention–"

The Principal interrupted, sarcasm creeping into his tone. "You're claiming that you in fact _attended_ detention after school yesterday?"

"No sir, but–"

"'No, sir!'" Goole repeated back at him, "the detention register shows me that you did not. Did you take your detention forms home for your parents to read and sign?"

"Not exactly, because–"

"I thought not. I see from your permanent record that you regularly failed to attend at elementary as well."

"No, sir, it wasn't–"

"'No sir'? Did you in fact attend elementary school every day? Because I have to tell you, Mr. Jane, that somehow one in four days went unregistered in every single year of your elementary education. That's quite an error in the records if you in fact did attend every day. Maybe the same error happened yesterday with the detention register?" The man's sarcasm and unwillingness to listen were getting on Patrick's nerves now. The man was frustrated about The Locker Incident, Patrick guessed, and was unfairly taking it out on him. The irony that it _was_ fair, even though the Principal couldn't possibly know that, did nothing to lessen his sense of injustice.

"It isn't what it looks like, sir, because–"

"I can see from your enrollment record that you're in foster care, Mr. Jane, and the reason for that is because your father was arrested a week ago. Having a parent who is a criminal," Goole's voice lingered over the word, "is no excuse for your bad attitude. Carson Springs Middle School will not tolerate the flagrant disregard for the rules that you seem to have cultivated since kindergarten!"

Patrick felt this barb even more keenly. Admittedly he didn't have much regard for rules when they didn't suit him but none of what Goole had said was proof of that. Patrick liked learning, he'd mostly enjoyed elementary school when he could attend but the Carnival season started in April and didn't finish until nearly Halloween. Of necessity he didn't attend classes for a quarter of the year. He'd always been top of the class when he was in school for an entire report period. That must surely be in his permanent record too? He narrowed his eyes. This guy wasn't going to listen to anything that might undermine his prejudice against Patrick. Looking at the ingrained anxiety lines Goole was developing on his forehead, the habitual slight pursing of the lips, the judgmental disdain around his eyes, Patrick concluded that the man had been promoted beyond his competence, was petty-minded and liked to exercise his authority to hide the fact he was indeed floundering in this job. On the plus side, he was more confident than ever that Goole would never identify Prankmaster Jeneral. That small comfort was offset by the fact that this was the man who would be his judge, jury and executioner about skipping detentions. Patrick decided to stop engaging with the conversation. He didn't think he could influence the outcome so he was hoping this might at least make the interview shorter.

"No, sir."

"'No sir!' Goole echoed, then actually smiled, a nasty smug little smile. He obviously took Patrick's words as a sign that he had triumphed. "You will complete the four after-school detentions you have already acquired, starting this afternoon, and you will spend this Saturday in detention as punishment for skipping your first detention yesterday. I want you to know that I also intend to call your mother into school today to appraise her of your misdemeanors in person!"

That did it for Patrick. Goole's smile, his vindictiveness and above all his reference to his mom filled Patrick with a sudden, hot fury that instantly evaporated his resolve not to participate in this charade.

"My mother is dead, you asshole." Patrick said these words in tones of utter contempt. He had never spoken to anyone like that before. Even in his anger he was distantly surprised how natural it felt, his voice and words completely in sync with his feelings for the first time in days, turning his words into a metaphorical slap in the face for Goole rather than the actual punch Tran had encouraged him to throw. It was cathartic.

Goole went very still, the blood draining from his features.

"What did you just say, boy?"

Patrick considered the fool opposite him for the briefest moment as he took a deep, calming breath. He had had enough of this. His voice became icy.

"I said that my mother is _dead_, you ignorant _asshole_." Patrick spoke slowly and enunciated every syllable with particular care, as though Goole was hard of hearing. He paused for a beat, then continued, "And now I'd like to speak to my lawyer, please," finally adding, as if it was an afterthought, "sir."

* * *

Patrick Jane sat outside the Principal's office again as the lady at the desk finished listening to someone on the phone. He presumed it was Goole because as soon as she hung up she got onto the PA system, asking for all the Vice Principals to come to the Principal's office at once. The lady reached for the phone again and didn't seem to mind that Patrick could hear every word.

"Hello, this is Mrs. Brown, secretary to Principal Goole at Carson Springs Middle School. This message is for Mrs. Brodie, regarding Patrick Jane. Please could you call the school as soon as you get this? Thank you."

"She's gone to San Francisco, I don't think she'll be calling you back today, ma'am," Patrick offered. Inside he was seething. Goole was clearly trying to get hold of anyone other than Taylor.

"Well thank you for letting me know, Patrick." Mrs. Brown smiled before she dialed a new number. This time there was a long delay before it was answered.

"Hello, this is Mrs. Brown, secretary to Principal Goole at Carson Springs Middle School. Please can I speak to Ms. Lazczyck? Oh…"

Patrick couldn't listen in any more, the Vice Principals were arriving, chatting in low voices. Two of them merely looked at him curiously as they passed into the office. One was Meyer and Patrick's heart sank at the sight of his look, it was far too shrewd for his liking. The woman who was wearing a white lab coat stopped and stared openly, surprised for some reason, her expression changing to a knowing half-smile before she, too, stepped into the office, shutting the door behind her. Brown was still on the phone, now clearly talking to Goole again.

"…sorry Mr. Goole but his social worker's also unavailable until tomorrow. His guardian _ad litem_ is the only other responsible adult on his record… That's all well and good, Mr. Goole, but he _is_ in foster care, I have his J-12 form right here in front of me and it clearly states… I understand that, but…" The muffled sound of a raised voice filtered through the Prinicipal's office door. "Principal Goole," Brown said firmly, cutting across him, "if you continue to raise your voice to me I will be forced to hang up on you." Brown's matter-of-fact tone impressed Patrick a great deal. She may be his secretary but she wasn't at all under his thumb. From his cold-reading of Goole he wondered just how much the man relied on Mrs. Brown to do his job for him. "I am calling Mr. Taylor next. Nothing you say is going to…" This pause was very long, though Goole's voice couldn't be heard through his door any more. Finally Goole must have finished whatever he was saying, or perhaps discussing with the Vice Principals. Mrs. Brown took a deep breath, "Of course, Mr. Goole… No, no problem."

Brown looked in his direction and unexpectedly gave him a nod and a smile before she called Taylor. Patrick felt his face break out into a wide grin. Not every adult in the building was on Goole's side right now. He had hoped Mayer might be sympathetic after yesterday but hadn't liked his expression just now. Patrick found himself wondering about that last Vice Principal, the woman in the lab coat, who exactly was she? Brown was on the telephone again.

"Hello, this is Mrs. Brown, secretary to Principal Goole at Carson Springs Middle School. Please may I speak to Mr. Taylor? Hello, sir, It's regarding Patrick Jane… Oh! Thank you, Mr. Taylor, I'll let Principal Goole know. Goodbye, sir." Brown flashed Patrick another smile after she put the phone down, then called the Principal again.

" Principal Goole? Mr Taylor is on his way, he said that he'd be here in around twenty minutes."

"Er, Mrs. Brown, may I ask you a question?" Patrick asked as soon as she was off the phone.

"Sure, Patrick, go ahead."

"Could you tell me the names of those Vice Principals?"

"Of course! There was Mr. Mayer, then Mrs. Baxter, she was the lady in the cardigan, Ms. Lee in the black skirt and Ms. Jepson in the lab coat."

"Thank you, ma'am," he replied, and lapsed into silence again. Jepson's reaction had been odd. It had looked as though she recognized him. Things had gone smooth as silk last night, they hadn't been seen by anyone even at a distance, let alone someone near enough to recognize his face. He didn't remember Jepson at all and he had a good memory for names and faces. He was sure if she was a recent psychic client or – god forbid – a mark then he would remember. Dad always cut back on the cons anyway when they got into California…

Well, Taylor wouldn't be here for twenty minutes. Brown was busy at her desk. He needed a distraction or thinking about it all would drive him crazy. He dug out his poetry book again. He could distract himself with homework for twenty minutes.

* * *

Patrick finished planning his short essay – half a page that looked like doodles rather than notes – then smiled as it took him just a few minutes to write it out neatly, a little under a hundred and twenty words in the end. He was very pleased with his first foray into essay planning. He could have written ten times as much about how he viewed the distinction between honesty and truth but he felt less inclined than ever to give away anything about himself to any of the teachers here. French was next, rote learning the use of être and avoir in the various tenses of other verbs. Yeah, he was pretty sure he already knew this, at least by ear. He made up a rhyme to pin down the spellings, then spent a few minutes creating a silly mnemonic story for the verbs that used être. He was about to start his science homework – just reading a chapter of his text book – when Tran arrived, walking straight up to Mrs. Brown's desk.

"Been sent to see the Principal, Mrs. Brown," he said sullenly.

"Already, Chi? You poor thing! You only got out of ISS this morning. What happened?" Brown sounded full of sympathy rather than disappointment or condemnation and again it struck Patrick that she was a decent sort of woman. She may be the Principal's secretary but she seemed much better at dealing with kids than Goole.

"Barty caught me in the hall without a pass."

"Well, it might be your lucky day, Chi," Brown said, writing something in a book on her desk then glancing at Patrick. "With last night's vandalism and a new issue that's just arisen Principal Goole is kinda occupied with other things at the moment. He might just have had enough once he's finished seeing Patrick's… guardian. You'd better take a seat, I think he's going to be a while." She indicated the seats. Tran shrugged, then sat next to Patrick. Brown carried on with her paperwork.

"So did you do the locker thing? Is that why he called you here?" Tran whispered.

Right, time to start squashing that rumor. "He called me here because I skipped going to detention after school yesterday, nothing to do with the lockers. It wasn't me, I don't think they know who did that."

"Did you hit him? I heard him call for all the VP's." Tran was keeping one eye on Brown, but eager curiosity was written all over his face. Patrick shrugged.

"Nah. He wasn't interested in listening to my side, I got a bit annoyed with what he said so I ended up cussing at him. Then I asked for my lawyer. I guess Goole wants some moral support for when he gets here."

"You're bullshitting me, man! Your lawyer?" Tran looked impressed.

"He's on his way." Patrick nodded, eyeing the closed door to the Principal's office, wondering what they were cooking up in there and exactly how much trouble he was in right now. Tran was grinning.

"Man, I wish I'd thought of that. I ain't got a lawyer though, just a social worker. How you get a lawyer?"

"He's my dad's lawyer really. He said he'd help me out if I ever needed it."

"Your dad rich or in jail?"

"Um, jail," Patrick replied guardedly.

"Figured. You don't look like a rich kid. It's my mom who's in prison. Three to five, possession with intent, I got group home. Goole hates kids in care because there's all kinds of extra rules for us, but he especially hates the ones with parents in prison. He says we're troublemakers. I say, he wants trouble? I'll give him trouble!"

"Why not just skip school? Wouldn't that be, you know, easier."

"They send you to juvie if you skip school. I promised mom I'd stay in school and out of juvie, keep away from the gang."

This guy promised his mom? And he's keeping that promise? There was more to Tran than met the eye, which aroused Patrick's curiosity. Aloud he said, "That's cool. You get ISS though."

"Can't keep out of trouble, man, not when the dice are loaded against you by the Principal. I don't do homework, I get ISS. I come in late, I get ISS. Some kid trips over and breaks his arm when I'm in the room, I get ISS. I'll probably get it for this, too. You know some kids are saying I did that thing with the lockers last night? It wasn't me, but I'll get juvie for sure if they pin that on me."

Patrick felt a little bit bad about that. He'd have to see if there was anything he could do. "Why do they think it was you?"

"Mom was working for the Crew and Rico's dad runs with the Lobos. Don't need any more reason than that." The Crew were the Vietnamese gang in Carson Springs, the Lobos were the Hispanic one. Guilt by association, something with which Patrick was intimately acquainted. He felt another pang of sympathy towards Tran.

"That sucks, man," Patrick replied with feeling. He was intrigued to learn about Rico's dad. If his son was following in his footsteps that would explain a lot about Rico. Tran – and his mom it seemed – didn't want to follow the same pattern. Patrick respected that. "They got no real evidence, though, right? You got an alibi?"

"Nah, I was back at the group home. I went to bed at eleven, woke up at seven but they don't check up on you overnight, kids go out at night all the time."

"How did you unhook the locker, Chi?"

"I just told you, it wasn't me, man – oh, you're kidding," Tran had started protesting loudly but then had caught Patrick's wide grin. He grinned back in return, genuine humor on his face this time. It made him look much less scary.

"I don't think you did it," Patrick reassured him. "Something like that – it must've taken some planning, more than one guy, probably. You got any friends here at school?" Tran's face said it all. "Nah, didn't think so. At the home?" Tran shook his head. With genuine sympathy Patrick found himself saying, "Man, you got _anybody_ except your mom?"

Tran shook his head again. "There's just me and mom. Just me now, but last time I saw her she said she could be out on parole in a year. She said jail was the best thing that ever happened to her, she's joined a program, she already cleaned up, her English is getting better and she's even learning to read and write. They want to help her get out of the gang. They can get her a regular job, help us find an apartment, and I'll..." Tran either didn't know what he wanted to do or had been about to tell Patrick something he hadn't intended to say. The aspirations were modest but Patrick could identify with wanting to reinvent yourself and move on to a better life. In spite of himself he found he was warming to Tran.

"There's just me and dad, too. I got friends, though, and I was put in with foster carers not group home."

What did your dad do?" Patrick eyed Tran, wondering what to say. The guy was less scary and seemed to him to be lonely, too, which would explain his sudden chattiness. Tran clearly thought they had plenty in common, with parents in jail and a mutual enemy in Goole.

"Uh, nothing, he's innocent," Patrick tried.

"Ha, Mom too! Fucking cops, they don't know shit!" This made Patrick smile. He was about to reply but at that moment Taylor arrived. Patrick jumped to his feet, shook Taylor's hand and spoke in a low voice.

"Mr. Taylor! Thank you for coming to my rescue again. I, uh, didn't expect I'd need more help quite so soon." This got a wry smile from Taylor.

"Just a moment, Paddy. There's a protocol to follow here. I need to get the low down from The Man before I hear your side of things, okay?"

"I understand, sir," Patrick replied before adding in a whisper, "Uh, he's got four Vice Principals in there with him."

"Only four?" Taylor chuckled, eyes twinkling. Patrick's heart rose. If Taylor wasn't worried then maybe he didn't need to be, either. Taylor turned away and raised his voice a little. "Mrs. Brown? Delighted to make your acquaintance. I believe Principal Goole is expecting me." Brown lifted the phone again to announce Taylor's arrival to the Principal. She mentioned Tran and his reason for being there and after a moment gave Tran a warm smile, speaking to him as soon as she got off the phone.

"Chi, I was right, he doesn't want to see you today, not just for a hall pass violation. Did you get a detention from Mr. Barty?

"Yeah," Tran replied, showing her the detention form.

"Then I think you can just go back to class. Let me write you out a hall pass, good for all day today so you don't get sent up here again."

"Thanks, Mrs. Brown," Tran grinned. His chat with Patrick and getting away with just a detention for his latest rule-breaking had clearly improved his mood.

"Good for you, Chi!" Patrick whispered.

"Give him hell!" Tran whispered back.

Alone with just Mrs. Brown and his thoughts for company, Patrick sat back down. He dug out his science book again and started reading. He speed-read the homework chapter through twice then turned back to chapter one, starting to read the book from the beginning as he waited for Taylor to emerge.


	12. Chapter 12

"This way, Mr. Taylor," Mrs Brown indicated when Taylor emerged from his meeting with Goole and the Vice-Principals. Taylor half-turned and spoke up, so Goole could hear what he was saying.

"Mrs. Brown, I need somewhere private to speak with Patrick. Somewhere we can't be overheard."

Mrs. Brown looked concerned. "It's all open-plan up here, sir, except for Principal Goole's office. I could find you an empty classroom–"

"Principal Goole's office will be fine." Taylor looked like he was fully aware that wasn't what Brown had been offering. So did Brown. Goole, however, who had appeared in his doorway, looked like a kid whose favorite toy had been stamped on.

"Principal Goole, the maintenance workers from District have just arrived. Perhaps you'd like to supervise them as they deal with last night's vandalism?" Brown suggested, diplomatically.

"Uh, yes. Yes, Mrs. Brown, that is a good idea. Ladies? Mr. Meyer?" Goole ushered the Vice Principals out of his office. "Mrs. Brown, please page me as soon as Mr… Ah…"

"Mr. Taylor," Brown helpfully supplied.

"Of course. Page me as soon as Mr. Taylor has finished his meeting, please. I am going to supervise the maintenance people from District."

"Yes, Principal Goole."

Brown opened the door to the Principal's office and showed Taylor and Patrick in. They both decided wordlessly to sit on the lounge-style chairs at a low table at the back of the office rather than using Goole's desk. As Taylor was extracting some paperwork from his briefcase Patrick spoke.

"Am I causing problems for my dad, Mr. Taylor, calling you here today?"

"No, Patrick," Taylor replied. "Your dad's deal with the DA is all arranged, I can't do any more for him until he appears in court this afternoon. Alex is being sentenced in Sacramento, not Carson Springs, they'll be transporting him there around now. I'll head over there when I leave here. It isn't anything to worry about," he assured Patrick, "it made things easier for the Governor's press office and in return Alex will be taken straight from court to the Volano state prison at Bacaville. It's a fairly new facility, low and medium security prisoners only, better for him than Polsom or staying in county jail for another week while they sort out his transfer."

"Can I have his address? He told me to write."

"He won't be able to receive letters until he's finished his induction into Volano prison. Start writing by all means but don't expect to send a letter until next week at the earliest. I'll get you his details as soon as I have them."

"Thank you, sir."

"Okay, Paddy, now I need to see your detention forms and hear your side of the story." Taylor looked serious but not solemn. Patrick dug the forms out of his bag and handed them over.

"How much trouble am I in, Mr. Taylor?"

"It depends on your side of the story. Remember Paddy," Taylor held his gaze for a moment, "I'm on your side, but you need to tell me the truth. From the top."

"Yes sir. I, ah, got a detention in every class on Monday."

"So much for following my advice," Taylor said, drily.

"I wasn't trying to make trouble, Mr. Taylor, I was trying to keep my head down like you said," Patrick protested, "but this place is very different to elementary school. They expect me to know all their rules without explaining them, the teachers don't want you to talk to them in class and they don't care who caused trouble as long as they can find someone to blame for it."

"From the top, Paddy."

"French was first. Mme. Tremblay wanted us to name our relatives, but she was mocking everyone who got it wrong rather than telling them the right way to say it in French."

"You already speak French?"

"I picked it up when I was ten, a French family with an antique steam powered carousel traveled with us that year. There's usually a couple of Quebecois on the lot so I speak or hear it most days. I'm not very good at reading or writing French, though, so I chose it as my foreign language option."

"Please continue."

When Tremblay told me to describe my relatives I started telling 'Monsieur et Madame' jokes instead. She didn't get the first one so I told two in the end. I think it must have been my accent, that family's from Pas de Calais while Tremblay's Canadian, because I would expect her to know what 'enculer' means, but she got 'Ils vont éjaculer–'"

"Dirty jokes. Is that what you're telling me?" Taylor interrupted, his eyebrows raised. "This is how you keep your head down?"

"I told them in French! No-one else in class understood what I was saying! And Marie-Thérèse was only ten when she told me those jokes. Her whole family would tell jokes like that, French people don't think they're as offensive as we seem to–"

"So, Paddy, do you think you deserved to get this detention?" Taylor interrupted again. Patrick realised that although Taylor was interrupting him he didn't mind, the man was giving him a chance to explain but not ramble. He thought seriously about it. Okay, he had expected some kind of repercussions when he decided to poke at Tremblay.

"I guess so. But she deserved what she got too! I just gave her a taste of her own medicine."

"I'm sure you did," Taylor replied with an amused look. "Her detention form here just says 'vulgarity'. I think you embarrassed her more thoroughly than you can imagine. She requested that you be removed from her French class but Mr. Goole already turned her down." Taylor drew a line across the page, and continued. "On to detention number two."

"Art. Someone came up behind me, squeezed a bottle of blue paint over my shoulder and dropped it at my feet before the paint even landed. Three girls' drawings were damaged, one pretty badly. I got the blame, even though the girl who was worst affected backed up my story afterward to Ms. Novak. Abigail didn't see who did it, but she saw both of my hands were in front of me when it happened, she knew it wasn't me."

"So that was absolutely not your fault? You hadn't provoked anyone?"

"No, sir, not as far as I know. I don't think I'd been at school long enough to provoke anyone. Maybe one of the boys didn't like me getting on so well with the table full of girls." Taylor cast a sharp eye over Patrick's face but it was carefully blank. Patrick knew more than he was saying but Taylor was sure he wouldn't get a name from the boy. He sighed.

"Okay, you're not going to rat on someone. Just tell me you won't go looking for trouble."

"I don't have to look, Mr. Taylor, it seems to just find me in this place." Taylor dropped his glasses to the end of his nose so he could look at Patrick pointedly over the top of them. It was a move that had spooked the most hardened of hostile witnesses in court. It certainly had the desired effect on the boy, who continued more quietly, "I found out who it was. I knew it was one of two people, and I found out which one. But I'm really not looking for any more trouble, Mr. Taylor. All I want to do now is avoid that boy and have him leave me alone too." It was the truth, now he'd gotten back at Rico he wanted nothing more to do with him. Patrick knew he sounded sincere. The problem was Taylor knew he was good at faking sincerity.

"Could you promise me that you won't go after this boy?"

"Yes," Patrick replied without hesitation. "I give you my word, Mr. Taylor, that I'll try to avoid him from now on."

Taylor nodded at this, apparently satisfied, and drew another line across his page.

"Okay. The third?"

"Social Studies. Mrs. Fairey tried to say that the Senate can impeach the President. When she invited me to address the class I read out the clause from my pocket Constitution that proved she was wrong. People laughed, she became upset, left the classroom and when Mr. Meyer took over the class he gave me the detention." Taylor's lips had twitched in the middle of this little speech.

"She invited you to address the class?"

"Well, I said I thought she was wrong to the girl sitting next to me. Fairey heard me talking so she asked if I wanted to share what I was saying with the whole class. I guess she wasn't expecting me to say yes but she did invite me to speak to them."

"You keep a copy of the Constitution on you?"

Patrick pulled it from his bag. "I got it four years ago. We were working an army passing-out fair and some people were giving them away. Dad thought it was only for the people from the army but I went back and asked for one anyway and they gave me this copy, just like that. For free, I mean. I didn't have to pay for it or anything. I… like to have it around. I packed it when I left the RV last week." Patrick didn't know how else to explain it. He wasn't usually sentimental but this book meant something to him. Those people had felt strongly, not about religion or politics but about the Constitution. They'd gotten someone to buy all these books then volunteered to spend three twelve-hour days on a hot dusty carnival lot giving them away. Even though he was just a little kid they hadn't laughed when he'd asked if he could have one. All of the books he'd ever read had been borrowed from one library or another but this was his, to keep, he'd even written his name in the front.

"So this detention was for correcting Mrs. Fairey in class?"

"Yes, sir. The class wrote down what she said and she'd got it wrong. It's the Constitution, it's… important. Everyone wrote down the wrong thing," Patrick repeated.

"The class all laughed at her after you read out the section about impeachment?"

Patrick looked defensive. "I didn't mean for that to happen. I wasn't expecting any reaction from the rest of the class. I just wanted them all to know the House impeaches the President, not the Senate. I was surprised when the class laughed and Fairey… took it badly."

"Yes, Paddy, she's the teacher. Her form here says 'showing disrespect'. Was it showing appropriate respect when you corrected her like that, in front of the whole class?" Patrick looked as though he was about to try to justify his behavior but stopped before he started. She had simply made a mistake then compounded it in the way she handled him. He hadn't intended disrespect when he'd quoted from his copy of the Constitution but nevertheless Fairey had lost the respect of the whole class because of him. Respect was important to Patrick, a harder currency than dollars on the Midway, tough to gain, easy to lose. Taylor would understand that too.

"No, sir. At the time I didn't intend any disrespect but I was more concerned about correcting the error than how it might look to the class. I guess I only considered my respect for the Constitution, not for her as the teacher."

Taylor finished scribbling on his pad, drew another line and looked Patrick in the eye. "That's a very mature conclusion, Paddy," he said approvingly. "Do you think you could apologize to Mrs. Fairey?"

"Yessir, absolutely," Patrick replied without hesitation. Taylor nodded.

"And the fourth detention?"

"Uh, I don't think I deserved that one. Language arts, I wanted to tell Ms. Portman about Jackson's theory on the signature 'Quarles' at the end of Poe's 'The Raven'. She wasn't interested so she handed out the detention."

"You were talking to her, not to the other students?"

"Well, I started talking to Ms. Portman but I ended up talking to the whole class again. I mean, they were interested, they were asking me questions, I wasn't going to ignore them."

"Her detention form says 'talking in class'. You spoke directly to Ms. Portman, then you spoke to the class as a whole. Did you chat to any friends or another student in that class?"

"No sir, It wasn't like Mrs. Fairey's class. I didn't know any of the other students. I was put in a remedial class, they were sixth graders, my other classes on Monday were all with kids from seventh grade."

"Remedial English?" Having heard his explanation of the detention Taylor was surprised at this. Patrick rolled his eyes.

"And math. I didn't ask for that, they just… expected me to need it, I guess. Mrs. Brodie said she'd sort it out next week. I have to pass a couple tests." Patrick seemed unconcerned at the prospect. Taylor found this surprising too but simply nodded again, drew another line.

"You missed the first detention yesterday afternoon?"

"Yes, sir. The forms say to have them signed by a parent but Mr. Brodie's away right now and Mrs. Brodie…" Patrick's voice tailed off. How could he explain about Sally? He had been extra sensitive to Goole mentioning his mom because of how much he disliked being mothered by Sally Brodie and how bad that made him feel about himself.

"It's okay, son, you don't have to put it into words." Taylor's kind tone made Patrick think of movie granddads and Obi-Wan Kenobi and Santa. "I lost my mom when I was very young too. I understand there's no such thing as a substitute."

Yes, that was it exactly. Patrick was astonished that Taylor would share such a personal thing with him, though he was profoundly grateful that the man understood. He nodded, blinking rapidly. After a moment he said, "I didn't know who to show them to. I meant to ask my teacher from home room but I guess I forgot. I didn't realize they wanted the detentions to start the following day."

"You never had a detention at elementary, Paddy?"

"No sir. Stoney Ridge Elementary is used to kids from the carnival and I liked school back then. They liked me too," he added, half-wistfully.

"Hmm. These forms don't say 'parent or carer'. They don't state they need handing back the following day, either. Did no-one explain what you should have done about the detentions, Paddy?" Taylor was already writing down more notes.

"No, sir, they just gave me the forms."

"What about in the school rulebook?"

"I don't have a copy of that, sir."

Taylor stopped writing and looked at Patrick, surprised. "You didn't get one when you started?"

Patrick shrugged. "I just got a locker key."

"Okay," he resumed writing his notes, "I think I can work with that. Now we come to Principal Goole this morning." Taylor looked expectantly at Patrick, who steadily held his gaze.

"He asked me questions but didn't give me a chance to answer them. He'd already decided I was in the wrong and he wasn't interested in hearing my side of things. He became sarcastic. Then he said he was gonna bring my mother into school to tell her off too. The way he was smiling when he said it… Anyway it made me mad. You understand?"

"Yes, Paddy," Taylor replied quietly.

"It's in my school record, isn't it? Goole knew about my mom when he said that?" Patrick persisted. "They all knew at elementary."

"He certainly should have known. It would have been on your enrollment form, on any information provided by Child Protective Services and in your permanent school record." They both turned to Goole's desk, where the slim folder still lay open. "He said to me he was talking about your foster mother."

Patrick shook his head. "He never used the word 'foster' to me," he said stubbornly.

"But you did cuss at him?"

"When he said he intended to call my mom into school I told him my mother was dead and called him an asshole. Twice. It was 'ignorant asshole' the second time."

"That would be a definite 'yes', then, Paddy." Taylor had been inwardly amused when Goole had first repeated Patrick's expletive because the word was so apposite. However the Principal had omitted Patrick's reason for saying it. Taylor wasn't amused now.

"Would you be prepared to apologize to him?"

"Only if he apologizes to me too."

"I'm not sure Principal Goole would be prepared to do that."

Patrick regarded Taylor steadily for a moment before he started talking. "I dream about her, sometimes," Patrick said, his tone conversational, looking Taylor directly in the eyes. "I never told Dad, he doesn't like talking about her… I don't remember her, of course, but we have some photos. After I found them I started dreaming about having a mom. Going on a picnic with my mom. Drying the dishes with my mom. You know, just regular mom stuff. I look a lot like her. She had blond curly hair too, her eyes were the same shape as mine and we have the same smile." Patrick was looking through Taylor now, not at him. "She never speaks in my dreams but she smiles a lot, like in the photos. Dad doesn't smile, much." This last phrase dragged the focus back into Patrick's eyes. Taylor found himself thinking about his own mother for the first time in decades, could feel a lump forming in his throat as Patrick continued. "I used to look at mom's photos every night, to try to make myself dream about her, but I don't think you can force dreams like that. I can't anyw–"

"Stop!" Taylor interrupted, surprising himself at how loud he said it. He continued more quietly, "That's quite enough of that, Paddy." He was sure Patrick was telling the truth about his mom but was equally sure he was doing so because he'd just told the boy that he might not get an apology out of Goole. Patrick had immediately decided Taylor's earlier mention of his own mom was a weakness he could exploit. The boy was trying to manipulate him, make him feel so sorry for Patrick that Taylor would force an apology from Goole. Patrick had been so wary until now, had given nothing away, he wouldn't volunteer anything this personal without a good reason. He had been quick to spot the opportunity, ruthless to exploit it – and effective, damn him. That was Alex's influence for certain though that was no reason Taylor had to put up with it. The lawyer briefly considered walking away, letting the boy deal with the consequences of his actions without help.

It was clear to Taylor now that Patrick wasn't behind his peers at school as he had thought last week when they first met. He was certain the details the boy had given when describing the reasons for his detentions were simply his precise way of explaining himself, those hadn't been shared to manipulate him. Patrick was intelligent, bilingual, well-read, interested in the world around him. Taylor briefly wondered who had been teaching him. That sure as hell hadn't been Alex. _How much trouble am I in, Mr. Taylor? _Too much for Taylor to abandon him now. In spite of this little episode Taylor was growing to like the boy a great deal. The more he learned about Patrick Jane the more he reminded Taylor of himself at that age: intelligent but having to leave school too young; mom dead, dad a deadbeat; curious about the world but struggling to find a place in it.

However this emotional blackmail had to stop now.

He took a deep breath, then let it out in a sigh. Patrick's description of his dad from their first meeting had come back to him before he could utter a single word. _When he's angry with me he uses his words, not his fists._ Dear Christ, he didn't want to imagine what Alex would say to his son when angry, or the effect that had had on the boy over the years. _He uses his words, not his fists._ Taylor knew he had to be careful with his words here, this wasn't the time to behave anything like Alex.

"Paddy, look at me." Wary, defiant, a hint of bravado on the boy's face.

"I'm your lawyer, Paddy, not some mark. No, wait, hear me out," he added, as Patrick tried to interrupt. "I always work to the best of my ability for every client. Always. You don't need to manipulate me into trying harder. I will do my best anyway. I wasn't trying to weasel out of anything here, Paddy. Goole is not the kind of man who finds it easy to admit he's wrong, especially to a student. Getting an apology out of him is going to be tough. I wasn't implying I didn't think it worth trying, or that I would go easy on him, or that I wouldn't work to the best of my ability to get that apology for you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"It is important to me that my client – that's you right now Paddy – has a realistic expectation of what I might be able to achieve. I would be letting down my client, letting you down, if I didn't give you that."

"Yes, sir." Patrick looked at Taylor warily. "Are you angry with me, Mr. Taylor?" Yes, a little, Taylor thought. Did he want to tell the boy that? He didn't want to lie to him. He decided to stall.

"You tell me, Paddy."

Patrick nodded, as if there was nothing unusual about what Taylor asked. "I think your first reaction was to be angry because you hate being treated like a mark."

"Yes."

"Then you thought… something bad, but I'm not sure what that could be?"

Taylor hesitated but it was important for the boy to understand. "I thought about telling you if you tried pulling that crap on me again you'd need to find yourself another lawyer." Patrick's eyes widened in shock and he quickly looked away, blinking rapidly again. The boy cleared his throat twice before he spoke.

"Do I need to do that, Mr. Taylor? Find another lawyer?" Patrick's face was now blank and though his eyes looked over-bright his voice was steady. If he hadn't seen his shocked expression just moments earlier Taylor would have sworn Patrick didn't care who his lawyer was. Jesus, was Patrick afraid Taylor would think his genuine distress was merely another attempt to emotionally blackmail him? He hoped the kid wasn't that screwed up but couldn't think of another reason for his question and the way he'd asked it.

"No, son." There was kindness in Taylor's voice again now. Patrick's shock at his words had been real, Taylor was sure about that. He wished he hadn't voiced his thought, it had been too much like a threat – too much like Alex, he suspected. Taylor had to remind himself again that Patrick was still just a kid, alone in an unfamiliar world. The boy was finally looking directly at him and hadn't managed to hide the hope in his eyes. "I was disappointed that you tried manipulating me like that," Taylor began. "My first reaction was to be angry, which is why that thought ran through my head. Believe me, lawyers think about dropping their clients all the time. We don't do it. You asked what I thought at that moment, you knew it was bad, I didn't want you imagining something worse," Patrick nodded again, though his expression made Taylor wonder whether he could in fact have said anything worse.

"I never mean any disrespect, sir, I didn't think... I mean, I…" Patrick took a breath, as if he was taking a moment to put his thoughts in order, then continued. "I guess I never met anyone like you before."

"You never met a lawyer?" Taylor smiled.

"That's not what I meant." Patrick shook his head, looking serious. "I never met anyone who… Who works to the best of their ability all the time. Most people are happy doing the least they can get away with. Even people who are good at what they do, they usually aim for 'good enough'. I mean, I like to be good at things but… I never met anyone before who really lived like that. I never knew it was even possible in real life. I thought about trying but… Isn't it really hard work? What's the payoff? For you, I mean."

Taylor had to chuckle at that. Patrick's little speech had been impressive until the talk about the 'payoff'. That was Alex's influence again. "Everyone has to work hard, Paddy. Payoff isn't always measured in dollars. I sleep well every night knowing I've done the best I could for the people who are relying on me. The payoff is in self-esteem. Not pride, which often has little basis in reality. It's the satisfaction of knowing you did all you could, never regretting that you didn't try harder. Life's too precious to waste on that kind of regret."

"I do like the sound of that."

Taylor paused for a moment, then looked serious again. "What you said to me just now about your mom–"

"It was all true!" Patrick was looking defensive again.

"I don't doubt that, Paddy, but you didn't say it because it was true. You told me because you thought I wasn't going to ask Goole to apologize and you wanted to make me change my mind – and I have to say those blows landed. That isn't a compliment," Taylor added, seeing Patrick's expression. "Saying those things, acting like you did, it's understandable but you need to know that you shouldn't behave like that. I'm not just talking about with me, I mean with anyone. Exploiting something personal that you know about someone to force them to do something, that's a shameful way to behave. You don't want to become someone who uses people like that."

Patrick looked surprised at Taylor's serious manner. "It's not using people! Everyone does it! All the time! You can't go through a day without making someone feel something, or persuading them to do something. Even my English homework was to write about how a poem made me feel." Taylor shook his head.

"There's a world of difference between persuading or encouraging someone and what you tried to pull on me just now – and you know that, or you should know it. Are you really telling me that you never regretted manipulating someone like that?" Patrick's mind flicked instantly to the hundred dollar bill he'd never spend, to Liss crying and Jenni so uncharacteristically subdued the evening after visiting the haunted house. He stayed silent.

Taylor nodded. "Didn't think so. Look son, that kind of thing can be used to help people, like when a coach gives a pep talk to his team, or it can be abused if you do it to make people do things they don't want to do. You're smart, good at reading people, it's quite a skill, makes for a good act. But it means you have quite a responsibility not to abuse it. You need to make sure you watch yourself. Don't do it just because you can. Shame and regret, they're terrible things to have to live with. They eat you up inside."

"I'm…" Patrick began, then seemed to change his mind. He nodded. "Sorry, Mr. Taylor."

"That's okay, Paddy. Well, I need to meet with the Principal and at least some of these teachers now. I think I can get Goole to give up his demand for Saturday detention. If I don't get an apology–"

"Then he won't either." Patrick looked determined.

Taylor asked Brown to page the Principal then asked whether she had a copy of the school rulebook for Patrick. By the time she had unearthed a copy of the rules Goole was back, this time alone – though Portman turned up very shortly after he and Taylor had gone back into his office. It looked like they were going to talk about his detentions with each of the teachers from Monday.

Patrick spent some time on breathing exercises. He'd surprised himself when he'd become so upset at Taylor's words, felt he needed to calm himself for a moment. He drifted into a daydream where he had a granddad like Taylor and a mom who was nothing like Sally until Mrs. Brown getting up from her desk for a moment broke his reverie. Well, daydreams were nice places to visit but you couldn't live there. He mentally shook himself then began reading through the rule book, slowly rather than speed-reading, before he asked Mrs. Brown how many kids got juvie for skipping school.

"I can't remember it happening in the seven years I've worked in this school, Patrick," she replied. "We've had students sent to Juvenile Hall for other reasons but not for truancy. Officially it can happen if you skip over twenty days in a year without authorization, that's a state ruling, but the district policy is to try to help troubled youngsters, not send them to Juvenile Hall. We even got a 'no child expelled' policy in Carson Springs District voted in last year. Kids who skip school end up being transferred to county schools. They're more secure than regular school with more counselors and a more structured approach, kids either go on day-release with a special bus picking them up from home or some schools are residential. The emphasis is on them catching up then helping them to re-integrate into regular school after their time there rather than imprisoning kids and writing them off. On average we send one or two students a year to county schools. None so far this semester but it won't be long now, some kids have already missed a lot of school since August." Brown sounded like an enthusiast for the Carson Springs system. It did sound more humane than sending kids to juvie but it seemed designed to help kids like Tran, not someone like him.

"Thank you, ma'am," he replied, discouraged. Secure and more structured, intended to help kids catch up, county schools didn't appeal to Patrick any more than this place or juvie. He needed… Somewhere he could practice his skills without distractions. ISS, working alone, would be good as far as schoolwork was concerned but wouldn't help with his real work. He didn't like to admit it but staying in school – maybe playing hooky for twenty days but no more – would help with the cold and hot reading, the memory exercises and the whole 'smartest guy in the room' thing. Chess club would help with thinking lots of steps ahead, making contingency plans and anticipating people's behavior. Attending lessons would be by far the least useful way to occupy his time but the rest of school was filled with potential. His mind drifted to the city library as Portman left and Novak replaced her. The school would have a library, not so well-stocked but still… Did skipping individual lessons count as skipping school? He started on the rule book again.

By the time Novak had been replaced by Fairey, Patrick had thrown down the rule book in disgust. Almost everything culminated in ISS, usually after a bunch of pointless detentions. There didn't seem to be anything useful in there for him. The only thing that allowed a student to be out of class was a hall pass, intended to allow students to use the bathroom during class time. Although Mrs. Brown had just issued a day-long pass to Tran...

"Mrs. Brown, will you give me a hall pass when I leave here, like with Tran? I don't want to be breaking any more rules if I can help it."

"Yes, if you like, Patrick. Let me write you out one of those now, so you have it when you're all done here."

"How long does a hall pass usually last?"

"They last the amount of time it takes for a restroom break. You just pick it up from your teacher and return it when you get back to class. The ones I issue are really on behalf of Mr. Goole. I always date them because I don't expect them to be returned and having a pass for the full day can be useful. If a student's been sent to see the Principal it's quite common for them to be upset. I might suggest they have some quiet time to themselves in the library or make an appointment for them to see one of the school counselors before they return to class. My kind of hall pass helps smooth that along."

An idea started to form in Patrick's mind. "Can any of the staff issue a hall pass? One like yours, I mean, for a whole day rather than a restroom break."

"Well, it would be very unusual for a teacher to do that. I suppose one of the Vice-Principals might issue a pass like mine or even for longer, if a student had a regular appointment to see a social worker or someone like that during school hours."

A hall pass could get Patrick into the school library instead of classes. He liked the idea of that. It would have to last longer than one day, though. Maybe he could work on Mayer, get him on his side. He thought about the look on the man's face as he came here today, then thought about that other VP, Jepson. She had recognized him, he was sure about that. She could have simply been in an audience recently, that might explain why she knew him when he didn't recognize her. It also suggested she might be willing to make a deal in return for the kind of pass he was thinking of. Maybe he could use today's hall pass to go see her after finishing up here.

Taylor emerged from Goole's office. He smiled at Mrs. Brown then sat next to Patrick. Obviously whatever he had to say now wasn't confidential.

"Patrick, I've managed to get two of your detentions cancelled. Both Ms. Portman and Ms. Novak decided they had been rather hasty issuing them." Taylor's eyes were twinkling again. Patrick wanted to ask what on earth he had said to get them to retract their detentions then decided he didn't need to know. Magicians didn't like having to explain their tricks.

"Thank you, sir, that's… That's brilliant, Mr. Taylor. Thank you." He was grinning widely.

"I'm going to ask you to apologize to Mrs. Fairey in a few minutes, for showing disrespect, as we discussed."

"Absolutely, sir." He pulled a more sober look onto his face. Yes there wouldn't be any problem apologizing to her. Taylor was leaving Goole until last because it was bad news, Patrick guessed.

"Mr. Goole has agreed that as half of the detentions were unjustified and because the school has been remiss in not explaining the detention rules or issuing you with a copy of the rulebook on your first day, he will also cancel the Saturday detention he imposed."

"Okay…"

"Mr. Goole also accepts that in the light of your family circumstances he inadvertently used inappropriate language when he was reprimanding you earlier and that your reaction, while also inappropriate, was to his language, not to the reprimand."

Patrick just looked at Taylor.

"He is prepared to apologize to you if you will apologize for your behavior too."

"I think I already agreed to that, Mr. Taylor." Patrick knew there must be more to it.

"You, ah, need to apologize for your inappropriate language first." Taylor was watching him closely, looking to gauge his reaction.

Patrick thought about this. He hadn't said he wanted Goole to apologize first. After what Taylor had said earlier about Goole he had expected no apology and instead some new punishment for swearing. This was a win, however he looked at it. He smiled his relief.

"Yes I can do that, Mr. Taylor. Do you have a preferred form of words or should I improvise?"

That made Taylor smile himself. "Keep it short. Something like 'I'm sorry for swearing in the heat of the moment, it was inappropriate' should be acceptable."

Patrick nodded. "Okay."

"Are you ready to do that now?"

"Yes, Mr. Taylor."

"Then will you apologize to Fairey for showing disrespect?"

"Yessir." Patrick stood.

It didn't take long. Patrick and Goole stiffly apologized to each other, then Patrick made a much longer and more sincere apology to Fairey. It gave him a chance to watch her closely. The woman had more nervous habits than anyone he'd ever met and Patrick wondered if her time off school the previous year had in fact been as a result of some sort of nervous breakdown. When he assured her that he had intended no disrespect and explained that only his respect for the Constitution could have made him speak out of turn in front of the class he saw actual tears form in her eyes. By the time he finished and to Patrick's astonishment – and Goole's – she insisted on withdrawing her detention too. Taylor had signed his remaining detention form which he would serve on Thursday after school, to allow him time to inform the Brodies and make travel arrangements.

Before Taylor left he pulled Patrick aside for a final word with him.

"Paddy, I'm heading over to Sacramento now but before I go I'd like you to promise me you won't start skipping classes."

Patrick had come to the reluctant conclusion he couldn't skip school but he'd be damned if he'd endure classes if he could find a way to avoid them. "Why would I want to do that, sir?" Patrick said it with smile but Taylor looked as though he hadn't expected Patrick to do anything other than agree.

"Last week I prevented your arrest by the Sheriff and I've just gotten you out of more trouble here. I want you to stay out of trouble so I'm asking you again, Patrick, to promise me you'll attend your classes."

"I didn't think keeping our agreement meant anything like this."

"Attending classes is how you keep out of trouble in school, Paddy."

"From my point of view it's been a very effective way to get into trouble, Mr. Taylor."

"I'm also asking you to attend classes for your own good. Education is…"

"Not gonna happen to me in this school if I have to attend classes, Mr. Taylor," Patrick snorted. "Please, sir, I don't want to break a promise to you."

"Explain, please."

Patrick looked back at Taylor for a moment as if to say, 'Really?' Then he spoke.

"Okay. You believe school is good for me. So let's think about it, I mean really think, in the real world not some perfect world that doesn't exist. Once Dad's out of prison he isn't gonna send me to school, not when there's useful things I can be doing up at Stoney Ridge. I'm not gonna be here long enough to graduate seventh grade, let alone graduate middle school. The teachers here, there's some good ones but mostly they're like we talked about earlier, they do the least they can get away with rather than doing their best to teach these kids."

"Maybe if you give it a chance you'll decide you want to stay at school, go to high school, get your diploma."

"What would a high school diploma do for me? An entry-level job in an office or a bank? If instead I continue learning my trade, developing the act, at eighteen I could go solo, get out of the show and onto the theater circuit, within a couple of months I'd be earning five times as much as an entry-level high school diploma job."

"A high school diploma will get you into college."

"Where would I get the money to go to college, Mr. Taylor? If I'm at college I'm not earning. A college degree will just get me onto the graduate trainee program at the same bank or office. At twenty-two, if I've been working for four years rather than going to college, I'd be earning a lot more than a graduate trainee and I wouldn't have all those student loans to repay."

"Paddy, you're bright enough to do well at whatever you choose. There's always a way, lots of kids work their way through college."

"This is all, ha, academic, Mr. Taylor, because I can't wrap myself up in chains like that. I just can't. It's tough enough… right now my life is tough enough trying to live with townies and survive this place. I need to be free to be myself or I might as well be in juvie, graduate to the state pen rather than college. I don't plan to spend my life on the carnival lot like Dad but at least if that happens I'll still have my freedom. If that means free to starve in a broken-down trailer on the carnival lot of my choice then it's still freedom. You worked the show back in the day, you must know what that freedom tastes like. There's a price but it's worth it. There's nothing like it in the whole world."

Taylor sighed. "Paddy, that sounds very impressive but I'm not convinced. I think you don't know enough about the world to be so sure that education and college wouldn't be a gateway to a better life for you."

So even Taylor was pulling the 'you're too young to know better' line on him. Patrick thought for a second, then replied.

"Okay, Mr. Taylor, how about if we make a deal? I'll complete all their homework, take all their tests, do well on their report cards until dad gets out of prison and we have to leave Carson Springs to follow the show. In return you let me play you at poker, at least once a week. You can even spend the whole time trying to convince me I'm wrong about school and college."

"I'm not going to teach you poker," Taylor replied flatly. That made Patrick smile. Taylor wasn't denying that he played, in fact he was confirming that he had taught other people to play in the past.

"You don't have to teach me, sir, I can already play, stud and draw. We can play whatever game you prefer. I think you're a good player and I'd like to see if I'm right."

"You think beating me would prove something about education, is that it?" Taylor asked.

"No, sir, I think I'd learn something useful with every hand I lost to you."

"I already said I won't teach you poker."

"I can play poker, sir. I think I'd learn other things. You don't have to do teaching in order for me to do learning, Mr. Taylor."

"Ain't that the truth," Taylor muttered under his breath, then, louder, "If I say no?"

Patrick's eyes twinkled. "I'm not going to get into trouble deliberately, Mr. Taylor, I'm not stupid. I just think we would both feel disappointed if you say no."

This made Taylor laugh out loud. "Go on, then. Spill. Why would I feel disappointed?"

"You do play poker. Well. Very well," he corrected himself at Taylor's reaction to his words. "You've been playing the same people around here for a long time, you know how they play and though you still like to play poker with them you're a bit bored. You don't have, um, the time? No, you don't have the _inclination_ to head over the state line to a casino, it isn't about the money for you anyway. You like the idea of playing poker _mano a mano_ against someone new. You even like the idea of playing me, for some reason. I'm happy about that, a little flattered, but I don't understand why."

"You're right. You're good at reading people, Paddy, you're even good at reading me, and not too many people can do that. Even if you're a terrible player it would still be interesting to play poker with you. If I'm honest I'm also a little flattered that you want to play poker with me enough to cut a deal. Any week you get into trouble is a week we don't play," Taylor suddenly proposed.

"Make it any week I get a detention, not just a telling off, and you have yourself a deal, sir. We play every detention-free week, in return I'll do my best to be a model student: school work, homework, studying, tests and grades."

"Sometimes I'll have to take a rain check, Paddy," Taylor warned. "My work can be like that, people call for help at all hours."

Yes we do, Patrick thought, but said, "As long as it's a rain check, not cancelled. We play more than one evening a week until we catch up. Uh, I'll need to be back at the Brodies by ten, though. I'm on a curfew."

"What will the Brodies say to you playing poker with me?"

"I think they'd prefer you to just about anyone else, sir. I'll handle the Brodies."

"I'm sure they wouldn't want you gambling at all. I won't be responsible for you deceiving them, Paddy."

"How do you feel about me getting into a little trouble with them, then?" Patrick asked with a roll of his eyes.

Taylor sighed. "Shall I just call William Brodie and ask his permission on your behalf instead?"

"Always happy do things your way, Mr. Taylor," Patrick grinned.

"Huh, not always," Taylor replied grumpily, but his heart wasn't in it.


	13. Chapter 13

Patrick Jane had taken his hall pass and headed back to the main office to find out where Ms. Jepson's room was. The answer – one of the science labs – wasn't surprising but the fact that she was free right now was. Patrick could head straight over to see her if he wanted, even though he wasn't quite certain what he'd say. He decided to go: he was good at improvising.

Arriving at the science block having waved his hall pass at a hall monitor with a certain amount of satisfaction, he found lab four without problems. Patrick took a deep breath and repeated his mantra _Confidence. If in doubt, fake it,_ before knocking.

"Come!"

Patrick opened the door. The room was similar to science lab one with the walls covered in colorful science posters, although over the teacher's desk in the corner was a big framed poster that looked both out of place and familiar. As he entered the laboratory he could see more clearly that it was very old publicity for the midway carnival at the Sacramento County Fair – Patrick guessed from the typeface it was from the seventies. That was unusual and its location made it personal. Interesting.

Ms Jepson looked up, her eyebrows raised in inquiry.

"Patrick Jane. I don't believe I asked to see you, young man?"

"Ms. Jepson, am I allowed to ask to see you?"

"What about, Patrick?"

"I have a… difficulty regarding my education here at Carson Springs Middle School and I think that you're in the best position to solve it, ma'am. To everyone's benefit."

"Students usually see one of the school counselors when they have problems," Jepson had turned back to the paperwork on her desk as she said this. Patrick nodded, still hanging around near the classroom door.

"I understand. Does that mean I'm not permitted to talk to you about it instead?" She looked up now, appraising.

"I'm rather busy right now–"

"May I make an appointment to talk with you later, Ms. Jepson?" Patrick persisted. "When it's convenient for you?" Jepson sighed a little too theatrically, looked at him a little too long before speaking.

"Come back after school tomorrow, Patrick. I'll speak with you then."

_You're calling my bluff?_ Patrick thought. _Then I'll raise the stakes._ Aloud he said, "Thank you, Ms. Jepson, I appreciate you making the time for me. I'll see you tomorrow after school," he confirmed, then turned to go.

"Wait! Were you going to skip detention again tomorrow afternoon and come here instead? After everything that happened in the Principal's office this morning?"

_And she folds. Never play cards, Ms. Jepson._ Patrick's expression didn't waver.

"Yes," he replied simply. "Is that a problem?" Jepson shook her head, disbelieving.

"You really don't know how school works, do you?"

"No, ma'am, I really don't," Patrick replied disarmingly, even as he thought _but I'm working it out._

"Come and see me after school today. I'll be here."

"Yes ma'am."

"And make sure you attend detention tomorrow!" she called after him as he left.

Patrick checked his watch as he left the science block. He could go to half of his art class or he could head over to check out the school library before lunch. Smiling, he took his hall pass out of his pocket. Library it was. He would ask the girl on hall monitor duty how to get there.

* * *

The first thing Patrick saw when he entered the library was Ashley, sitting opposite the door at one of the tables near the window with her nose deep in a book. He glanced around, spotting the librarian at her desk next to the exit. She had looked up curiously when he entered so he sauntered over.

"Good morning, ma'am," he started in his quiet library voice. "I've come from the Principal's office. May I stay in the library until lunch break?" He showed her his hall pass.

"Patrick Jane," she read aloud. He could see she remembered his name being announced earlier. "Yes, you can stay."

"Thank you, ma'am," he replied, then quickly crossed the floor and sat next to Ashley.

"What are you doing here?" he breathed quietly as she looked up from her book.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she whispered back, surprised.

"You first."

"We had a test in Spanish class and she let us go early when we finished. You?"

"You came here rather than go somewhere else?"

"Yes, so what? I like the library." Ashley sounded defensive. "Why are you here? What did the Principal want?"

"I like libraries too!" Patrick beamed at her. "I think my favorite place in the whole world is Carson Springs City Library."

"I've never been there. We have a little library near us in the suburbs."

"I'll take you, you'll love it! It's old, Victorian I think, with stone steps and columns at the front and the book collection's impressive, much bigger than Sacramento. They moved the library there into a new building with all new books and the place is as ugly as a steel box. A library should be a building you can love, don't you think?"

"I think the perfect library has comfy chairs in little nooks where you're allowed to curl up and read for hours."

"Yeah…" Patrick agreed. He had never met another kid who was as enthusiastic about libraries as him.

"Patrick," Ashley whispered after a short silence, "did you do the thing with Rico's locker? Is that why you were called to the Principal's office?"

"Nah," he lied easily. "Fairey's detention wasn't the only one I got on Monday. I didn't go to detention yesterday after school so Principal Goole wanted to tell me off." Ashley's eyes widened.

"You got more than one detention! And you didn't go! Did you get ISS for that?" She sounded thoroughly scandalized.

"Nah," he said again, "my lawyer got me out of trouble with Goole. I have to do one detention tomorrow, that's all."

"Your lawyer?" Now Ashley sounded incredulous.

"Mr. Taylor. He got three detentions cancelled. I got one retracted all by myself, though. That was Fairey's. She liked the way I apologized," he added smugly.

"Why, what did you say?" Her tone was not so much curious as fearful. Ashley clearly thought it was a big deal. Patrick wondered what she imagined he might have done. Bribed Fairey, perhaps, or threatened her because as Tran had said, only rich people or criminals would have a lawyer.

"I said I was sorry and I meant it, that's all. Ashley, look at me. I'm not some bad guy." Patrick took her hand. It was smaller than his with long, slender fingers which felt soft when he stroked them. "I like libraries and reading. I like you, Ashley," he added with a smile.

"I like you too, Patrick." Ashley's eyes confirmed the truth of her words.

"Ashley," he murmured conversationally after a moment, "are you going trick-or-treating tonight?"

"No," she said sadly. "I was going to go with my friend from down the block and her little sister, but now they're heading over to visit their cousins in Davis straight after school to go trick-or-treating with them instead. Mom said I couldn't go alone."

"Do you want to go trick-or-treating with me tonight? I'm taking a couple of youngsters round the neighborhood, they never went trick-or-treating before."

"Yes," she replied eagerly, "I'd love to!"

"Could you come back with me after school? Though I guess your mom will be expecting you home."

"No, she isn't," Ashley replied unexpectedly, "I have a house key. I let myself in after school and watch TV or do homework until Mom gets home. She said there was some newspaper thing going on in Sacramento this afternoon so she wouldn't be back before six tonight. If I call her at work she can come by your house and pick me up on her way home."

Patrick had a sudden sinking feeling he knew exactly what that 'newspaper thing' in Sacramento might be. "She reports from all over, then?" he asked.

"No, not usually, it must be about something local, she only goes over there when one of the politicians has something to say about Carson Springs," Ashley blithely continued. "Why do you ask?"

Patrick could almost see tomorrow's front-page headline, 'Governor triumphs over Carson Springs criminal.' He shook his head. "Whereabouts do you live?"

"Forty-ninth Street. Half a block down from Washington. Why?" she repeated.

"My foster carer's taking us all to a party at six o'clock at her church and I have to go. I won't be allowed to wait for your mom with you at the Brodies' house, but their church is on Forty-seventh and Jefferson. I'll ask Mrs. Brodie to give you a lift home when she takes us there. Your mom can go straight home and you'll be there by the time she gets back."

For a second Ashley looked delighted, then her face fell. "Oh! I don't have a costume."

"The Brodies have a whole boxful of costumes in their attic, all different sizes. I'm sure they'll be happy to lend you one for an hour or so. Please come, Ashley. It can be our first date."

"Trick-or-treating isn't a date!" she snorted.

"You only say that because you've never been trick-or-treating with me," Patrick smiled. He glanced around, then leaned in and kissed her cheek.

* * *

Patrick introduced Ashley to Liss and Julia at lunch break and they all seemed to get along. Liss seemed keen on Ashley accompanying them trick-or-treating after school that afternoon. In hushed tones Ashley mentioned that Patrick had called his lawyer about his detentions and everyone wanted to hear that story. Patrick was starting to realize that by calling Taylor he had inadvertently failed yet again at keeping his head down. He'd only been at the school three days and already he was becoming notorious. Best to get his version of the story out there. If he couldn't hide in obscurity there was always the option of hiding in plain sight behind tales as tall as he could make them.

"Okay. Well. As you know, I started here on Monday…" Patrick edited out the reason he didn't show the forms to Sally and had reached the point where Tran arrived at the Principal's office when the sudden change of expression on everyone's face, particularly Ashley and Andy's, made him stop and turn to see what they were looking at. Tran must have heard Patrick say his name because he was looming right behind him: he moved stealthily for such a big guy. Patrick arranged a delighted smile onto his face.

"Hey, Chi! I was just talking about you! Come and sit down. I think you already know Andy Williams, this is Ashley Morgan, she sits behind you in home room, Liss Seacroft who's in eighth grade and her friend Julia..."

"Adams," Julia supplied after a moment.

"Julia Adams. Everyone, this is Chi Tran." Patrick didn't really expect anyone to say 'hi' so he carried on talking. "As I said, I was waiting outside Goole's office for Mr. Taylor to arrive when Chi here turned up. You gonna sit down, Chi?" Patrick asked innocently as Tran continued to stand.

"You want me to sit with you for lunch?" Patrick could hear the hope in Tran's voice even if no one else could.

"Yeah, you're in this story, you can help me out if I forget anything important," Patrick replied.

Tran finally sat at the edge of the group, eying them as warily as they looked at him. Patrick broke the tense silence.

"Well, Mrs. Brown told Chi he might have to wait a while so we got chatting. He asked if I did the locker thing and I asked if it was him but it turns out it wasn't either of us. Principal Goole hasn't found Prankmaster Jeneral yet."

"I thought it might be someone getting their own back on Rico for one of his pranks," Andy interrupted.

"That's what I said to Ashley this morning," Patrick agreed, "but that must still leave a lot of people."

"Half the school," Andy nodded. "Well, half of seventh grade anyway."

"You mean half the boys," Ashley chipped in.

"Not only people at the school," Patrick added. "What about that guy who spent the night in the tree? He would know his way around the school but he wouldn't care what he did here because he goes to Ruger now."

"Peter Thornbury? We still don't know if that was Rico," Andy said doubtfully.

"We don't know but Peter would," Patrick argued. "If it was Rico who chased him up that tree it would give Peter the best reason in the world to pick on Rico's locker. Maybe he got help from the Ruger basketball team? They wouldn't care about Rico but they'd be happy to play a prank on the school that beat them last week. Whoever Prankmaster Jeneral is, he must have had help."

"Yeah," Tran chipped in, "that wasn't a one-man prank." Patrick had to stop himself grinning as Tran repeated the idea Patrick had put in his head outside the Principal's office.

"Patrick, are you gonna tell us the rest of what happened with Goole and the lawyer?" Liss and Julia weren't as interested in the prank as the seventh graders. Patrick grinned now, it hadn't taken so long for them to accept Tran's presence after all.

"Okay... Chi and I were chatting outside the Principal's office," Patrick recapped. "Chi wanted to know why Goole called for the Vice Principals."

"I thought maybe you tried to hit him," Tran replied, nodding.

"So I explained it was because I asked for my lawyer. Then Mr. Taylor turned up." Patrick glanced at Tran, who looked relieved that Patrick had skipped over the more personal stuff. "I told him that there were four Vice Principals in the office with Goole and he said–"

"'Only four!'" Tran interrupted. "I didn't hear what you told him," Tran explained, "just what he said. I wondered why he said that, because the look on his face... man, I heard lawyers called 'sharks' before but I never saw any of 'em grin like one until then."

Ashley and Andy shared a look. If they had been surprised when Patrick invited Tran to sit with them it was nothing compared to their current astonishment.

"That's funny, Chi, you're a witty guy," Patrick said nodding his approval. "Anyway, Taylor says 'only four' then he grins like a Great White..."

* * *

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. They were still covering the Constitution in Fairey's class so Patrick had plenty of time to think and plan. He cornered Ashley afterwards.

"I need to see one of the Vice-Principals after school. It shouldn't take long but if I'm not at the bus stop are you okay going back with Liss on the school bus? You can sort out your costume with her and Mrs. Brodie, can't you, if I'm back a little bit later?"

"Um, I guess so, but what–"

"I have a question, you know, after this morning. It's nothing bad." He saw uncertainty in her eyes again and realized that by Ashley's standards he _was_ a bad guy. She had never had a detention. "You do believe me, don't you, Ashley?" he added.

"Yes," she said, though her eyes said only 'maybe'. Patrick didn't blame her, girlfriend or not she barely knew him. He was obscurely pleased that she wasn't as naïve as she looked.

"Thank you," he replied, then glanced around the busy corridor before deciding to squeeze her hand discretely rather than kiss her. "I'll see you later."

At the start of language arts Ms. Portman took Patrick aside for a quiet chat. She seemed relieved when he agreed with her about moving up into the seventh-grade class, told her it was already in hand. She then bluntly told him to 'read quietly and not interfere' while she taught the lesson. Patrick thought that was a bit much so he pushed his luck a little, asking in return to be let out of class early, showing her his hall pass. She seemed surprised at his request but nevertheless agreed.

Ten minutes and his hall pass got him to Jepson's lab in the science block as the bell went for the end of the day. Patrick waited impatiently while the stragglers left, then he tapped on the open door.

"Come!" Ms. Jepson was sitting at her desk as before but it was now clear of paperwork and books. She had also put a chair opposite. "Please take a seat." Patrick closed the classroom door before he walked over to the desk, put down his bag and sat. He spent a moment silently regarding Ms. Jepson which she found surprisingly uncomfortable.

"Why did you want to talk to me, Patrick?"

"Ms. Jepson, have you read my file?"

"I have now, Patrick."

He nodded. "So you know I'm only going to be here for a few months." He was still watching her closely. "My dad's being sentenced to twelve months today, he'll be out on probation in six, Mr. Taylor said, then I'll go back to being home schooled."

Jepson was already on the back foot. The school had had its fair share of kids in care in the years she'd worked here, some because of parents in prison, his situation wasn't so unusual. They all had problems of one kind or another and some of them had been her pastoral responsibility. She thought she'd seen everything: kids in tears or acting like they didn't care, kids shouting, even lashing out in anger but she'd never had a kid discuss their situation with her like this, so engaged – being on the receiving end of that much focus was unsettling – but so dispassionate.

"Child Protective Services will want to ensure your home environment is safe before–"

"My dad pleaded guilty to a white collar crime, Ms. Jepson. He's cooperating fully with everything they ask and he'll be serving his time in a low-security prison. Ms. Lazczyk and the CPS are no more of a match for Mr. Taylor than Principal Goole and this school." Patrick wasn't at all certain of that but he didn't let it show, his confidence seemingly made of granite rather than smoke and mirrors. "Taylor knows there's no reason to keep me in foster care once Dad's released. It's a formality. I'll be gone in six months." Jepson didn't pursue it. She'd seen Taylor in action earlier and thought if he was going to be involved then Patrick could very well be right.

"And your point is…?"

"I don't belong here, Ms. Jepson. I'm better learning by myself than – than being in a classroom."

"Yes, the speed that you caught up with algebra was very impressive."

Patrick for his part was surprised she'd actually spoken to his other teachers, the ones who hadn't issued him with a detention. It was more than Goole had done, he was sure. What he wasn't sure about was whether Jepson was being sarcastic. Was it impressive? He had no idea, he hadn't compared himself to other students for two years. He decided to ignore those words.

"I don't want to get into any more trouble," he continued. "That means I need to come to school every day but I think it would be better for everyone if I don't go to some classes. I'm... disruptive."

"I'm sorry, Patrick, that's out of the question. Kids don't choose which classes they feel like attending." Jepson was brisk in her dismissal.

"You worked the Midway for a while, didn't you, ma'am?" His sudden change in direction was unexpected, Jepson's reaction told Patrick he was right. He nodded. "Did you know that I'm psychic? I'm the gypsy psychic at Pops Ruskin's carnival." She recognized the Ruskin name, reacted to 'psychic' too. Was she one of Alex's old girlfriends? Looking at her Patrick didn't think so. She had read his file and there had been no reaction when they talked about Alex earlier.

"It's what I do," Patrick continued. "That's how I know you worked the Midway. Not for long, though. Was it one year or two?" No, neither: must have been three years then, or maybe just three seasons. When she didn't reply he smiled, "Come on, Ms. Jepson, people pay good money for a psychic reading like this. Work with me here."

"I'm not talking to a so-called psychic seventh-grader about my personal life."

"Then you can listen." Patrick's tone had hardened. "You worked the Midway for three seasons when you were younger. In fact you were only a kid when you started," he added as he read her reaction to 'younger'. "You ran away to the circus, to the carnival, anyway. Which circuit did you work?" He let the silence extend as he thought: she worked the circuit for three seasons then went to college. She started young so she was probably fifteen or sixteen, then left for college at eighteen. Bright enough to get her diploma without going to high school. Had to work her way through college, though, a runaway wouldn't have parents helping her out.

"Texas the first year, then the mid-west." Jepson reluctantly filled the growing silence. She couldn't believe she was participating but there was something about the boy, about the whole conversation which dragged her in. Jepson didn't believe in psychics but... How had he gotten all that from merely looking at her?

Patrick was surprised, shocked almost. Jepson knew the Ruskin name, must have worked the Ruskin circuits in Texas and the Midwest. He knew his own family had worked Michael Ruskin's Texas circuit when he was a baby but had switched to Pops Ruskin's Midwest carnival when he was two. It had to be more than a coincidence that Jepson had made the same switch around the same time if he was right about her age. He'd bet good money Jepson had worked for his aunt as a cotton candy girl, following Lily when the Janes switched circuits in seventy-seven. Jepson recognized him, yes, though not from recently. She must have had her suspicions when she heard his name over the PA system, Jane wasn't a common surname after all. Patrick looked younger than his years, the toddler he had been would still be recognizable in his face now.

"You ran away in nineteen seventy-six when you were… around sixteen." This was scarily accurate and Jepson's trepidation increased. "You were scared of the carnies but you were more scared of what was happening at home." It felt like Patrick was seeing into her head. "Then the carnival turned out to be a place where you found a real home. You were tolerated, welcomed, even. They gave you a bunk and a job and didn't worry about your social security number or your age. You found people you could finally trust," strong reaction to that word, "and in return you worked long hours for not much pay, happy to do it because for the first time in your life you felt respected. You enjoyed being thought of as reliable, it made you feel …grown-up." He let that thought settle for a beat before he continued, more conversationally, "What did you do?" Jepson was close to tears. She had never told anyone at the school but that was exactly how it had been for her. Patrick's words had stripped away the callouses of the years leaving her feeling raw and exposed.

"Cotton candy. I worked a cotton candy machine." Her voice was little more than a whisper. This time Patrick nodded like she was confirming something he already knew.

"Then you left the Midway, went to college, became a teacher and now you're here, youngest Vice-Principal in Carson Springs Middle School history. And now I'm here. But I didn't run away to the carnival, I was taken away from it. Do you think I've been welcomed and tolerated by the kids or the teachers here, like you were on the Midway? Have I found the loyal friends and the respect that you found?" Patrick paused, watching her face.

Jepson was mortified by his words. Goole had been very clear to his Vice-Principals exactly what he thought of Patrick Jane and his request for his lawyer. She knew a lot of the other teachers would feel the same. She thought about how the kids would likely behave, how they had already started behaving if he hadn't been the one who threw the paint in art class. She shook herself: of course he hadn't thrown any paint, that had been someone trying to get the new kid into trouble on his first day. A lone carny kid in a school full of townies: no wonder he'd asked for his lawyer.

"You know I won't be at this school long enough to change any of that," Patrick continued relentlessly. It was as if he was replying to her thoughts now. "You have the power to make this place a little easier for me. Of all the people who have that power, you're the only one who might be inclined help me. For Lily's sake, because of everything she did for you." Jepson started at Lily's name. How did he know? Patrick again let the silence drag words out of her.

"Lily was so good to me," Jepson breathed. "I was terrified when Michael Ruskin and his crewmen found me hiding in the back of that truck but Lily got them all to back off. She gave me a job, trusted me. She even encouraged me to do something else with my life. She was so happy for me when I got into college–"

"You thought Lily was my mother. Until you saw my record this morning, all those years you thought Lily was my mom." Jepson looked at him, how could he know what she had thought? "How old was I the last time you saw me?" he asked.

"Four. Nearly four."

Patrick nodded, deep in thought. "Near the end of the season, nineteen seventy-eight, the last summer you worked for her, when you left the circuit early to start college."

Jepson nodded slowly, swallowed. "Yes."

"When I was a preschooler Lily sometimes got members of her crew to mind me whenever something came up." Patrick's unspoken question hung in the air.

Jepson nodded again.

"She didn't trust all her crew with me but she trusted you. You weren't even an adult and she trusted you with the boy you thought was her son." That was why Jepson had reacted so strongly earlier when he said 'trust'. "Lily was good to you, you believe you respected her but you still thought she had gotten pregnant when she was only fifteen. Yeah, because that's what carnies are like." His disdain provoked her into speech.

"She was so good with you that we, uh, we did think she was your mom. The girls on her crew, I mean." Her unspoken words, that Alex had not been so good at looking after his baby son, burned brightly across his mind for a moment. It wasn't anything he didn't already know though it was unpleasant to pick it up from a stranger. Not really a stranger, though – or she hadn't been, once.

"Not all of her crew thought that about her, but you did." Patrick said quietly. "You remembered my name when they called me to the Principal's office this morning, wondered if I might be the toddler you used to look after sometimes. When you saw me you recognized me, even believed I was Lily's son but you didn't say anything. Not to me, not in the meeting because – because their opinion of you would be _tainted_," Jepson flinched at the word, "if they knew about your association with me, with my family. Then you found out that Lily wasn't my mom and although that was an assumption you made rather than a lie that she told you – that anyone told you – you felt like you'd been lied to, felt betrayed even. You wondered if any of the good things you remembered were real, because that's what carnies are like, aren't they, prepared to use every trick in the book to get what they want. When I turned up here asking for help afterwards you were still smarting. That's why at first you said to come here tomorrow. You knew that was when I had a detention, knew coming here instead would get me into the kind of trouble even Mr. Taylor couldn't fix. Why didn't you go through with it?"

"I couldn't. Because you were going to come back to see me instead of attending detention. You would have let me get you into trouble and whatever I thought about – about what I just learned, I couldn't do that."

Patrick nodded again. The woman had some kind of conscience; it was a crack he could open with his particular kind of crowbar. He sighed, resignation in his tone. "You don't wanna help me. You thought Lily was a teen mom. You think even saying you once worked for someone in my family will cause problems for you at this school. You're not gonna help me. I'm sorry I've wasted your time, Ms. Jepson." Patrick looked around and picked up his bag as though he was getting ready to leave.

"What do you want me to do?"

Patrick's eyes flew to Jepson's, he let her see the hope there.

"A hall pass. Like this one, but for more than one day. A way to get out of classes without getting into trouble for the rest of my time here."

"A long-term hall pass?"

"Yes. Something that allows me to use the library instead of going to classes."

"You'll still get into trouble, you know." Jepson was pulling something from her desk drawer, scribbling on it. "There's still homework and assessments, tests and grades. There's class registers. A hall pass gets you out of trouble if you're caught out of class, it won't keep you out of trouble if you don't do schoolwork."

"Why Ms. Jepson, I'm touched by your concern." Patrick's sarcasm made Jepson glare at him. Patrick's eyes narrowed. "You really are concerned, aren't you? You're embarrassed by your reaction earlier and you want to make it up to me. I suppose I should be grateful."

That stung Jepson, she found the words tumbling out. "I came here because I wanted to make a difference, Patrick, not rip people off with tricks and half-truths at a carnival for the rest of my life. I was fast-tracked through college, I got scholarships and sponsorships, I could have gone anywhere but I wanted to come back here to Carson Springs and make things better for kids like you."

"I bet Goole bit your hand off when you applied for this job. Is that how you made Vice-Principal so young?"

Jepson ignored his taunt. "Tell me, did you already know that math? You impressed the hell out of Frances Smith. Was that real? I read your _whole_ record from elementary. How much math did you study in the last two years?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"If we had a 'gifted and talented' program in the school, with teachers who helped you work at your natural pace, in a class with other clever kids, would you still have asked me for this pass?" Jepson persisted.

Patrick hesitated. "Maybe not," he said, eventually. "I might have asked to join your program. You haven't managed to persuade Goole to set up anything like it, though."

"Yet," Jepson replied.

Patrick shook his head. "I'm only here for six months. I'll be gone by the end of April. Even if I wanted it, even if your program existed, I wouldn't be eligible. They'd want proof of commitment as well as proof of ability, or want me to pass a Carson Springs residency test or jump through some other damn hoop thought up to exclude kids like me. You said it yourself, carnies aren't deserving, they're on the take. I'm sorry, Ms. Jepson. I'll do their homework and their tests but I'm only gonna be here for a few months." Patrick grinned darkly. "Goole's never gonna start that kind of program if I'm your poster boy, ma'am." They regarded each other for a moment, resignation settling on one face as cynical defiance filled the other.

"Here," Jepson said, defeated, holding out the piece of paper. Patrick read it through:

'Carson Springs Middle School Special Hall Pass.

Patrick Jane is permitted to use the libraries for self-led study instead of attending classes at any time throughout academic year 1987-1988. This hall pass is not transferrable. Signed: E. N. Jepson, Vice Principal.'

"Nice doing business with you, Ms. Jepson," Patrick smiled as he gathered up his bag and left. If he ran, he thought, he might even get to sit next to Ashley on the school bus.

* * *

Sally Brodie was astonished to see a strange girl holding hands with Patrick when she opened the door. As Liss, Jenni and Paul trooped in Patrick said, "Mrs. Brodie, I'd like you to meet Ashley Morgan, my girlfriend. Ashley, this is one of my foster carers, Mrs. Brodie. Ashley's coming trick-or-treating with us this afternoon. Can she please borrow a costume? We arranged this all at the last minute and Ashley doesn't have a costume."

Sally recovered her voice and smiled brightly. "Hello Ashley, it's nice to meet you. Please call me Sally."

"Hi Sally," Ashley replied shyly. "Thank you for letting me come over."

"I thought you said you didn't have a girlfriend, Patrick?"

"I didn't have one on Sunday, ma'am, I only asked Ashley to be my girlfriend yesterday. So is it okay for her to borrow a costume?"

"Of course," Sally replied ushering them inside. "I'll show you upstairs to the dressing-up box, Ashley. I'm sure there's something that will fit."

"Ashley lives near your church, Mrs. Brodie. Please can we give her a lift home afterwards when we go over there for the party?"

"Where exactly do you live, dear?" Sally asked.

"Forty-ninth and Washington. Um, is it okay to get a ride home? I don't want to cause any problems, Sally."

"It's fine, though it'll be a bit of a squeeze in the back of the car."

Patrick couldn't resist a set-up line like that. "I don't mind a bit of a squeeze, Mrs. Brodie," he grinned, and was gratified to see both Ashley and Sally blush at his words.

* * *

Sally took Ashley up to the attic while the others went to their rooms to change into their costumes. Patrick had picked out a very battered top hat and paired it with a shiny cloak from what had looked like a Christmas 'Three Wise Men' costume. With his vest underneath he looked enough like a magician. If the hat made it more 'Samedi Nuit Mort' than 'Sigfried and Roy' that only made it more fitting for Halloween. Liss, hooting with laughter, drew a wildly curly black moustache below his nose with her eye liner pencil. Patrick laughed too once he saw himself in the mirror, and after a quick 'Perfect, thanks Liss' he went downstairs to wait.

Jenni and Paul were already downstairs, Jenni in a fairy princess costume complete with wings and a wand, Paul a creditable cowboy with a Sheriff's badge and toy gun. They played Wyatt Earp and Houdini Visit Fairyland as the occasional burst of laughter filtered down from Sally, Liss and Ashley upstairs. After another ten minutes – the evil magician had kidnapped the fairy princess and the Sheriff was rescuing her – Sally came in followed by Liss, who was dressed all in black and made up like a goth girl. They both turned towards the doorway and Ashley entered.

Ashley had chosen a rather old-fashioned cheerleader costume in blue and white and Patrick thought she never looked prettier. The skirt was long by the standards of today's cheerleaders though shorter than the ones Ashley wore to school. The sweater was plain which suited her much better than the frilly blouses she usually sported. Someone had helped her put a little makeup on too, subtly highlighting her eyes and lips.

"Do you like it?" Ashley asked.

"I think you look lovely," Patrick replied sincerely, unselfconsciously walking over to her, taking her hand and kissing her cheek. She giggled and blushed as he stepped back, drinking her in, then he glanced at Sally, eyebrows raised. "You were a cheerleader? And you still have your costume?"

"At high school and college," Sally nodded. "I kept that costume because it was my first. It reminds me of my mom. The school gave out the patterns and she made it for me. My daughter wore it a few times for fancy dress parties when she was growing up, that's what made me think of it for Ashley when we couldn't find a costume for her in the attic."

"I'm going to put black under her eyes and grey on her cheeks, turn her into a zombie cheerleader, but she wanted you to see her like this first," Liss explained.

Patrick, smiling, turned back to Ashley.

"Thank you," he said simply.

"Come here," Liss said to Ashley with a determined look in her eye, unzipping a make-up bag as she said it. In a few moments Ashley looked suitably Halloween-y. Liss was laughing and approving of the look even before she'd finished. When both girls squeezed into the downstairs bathroom so Ashley could take a look their shrieks of laughter rang through the house.

A few minutes later as they were leaving Sally called out from the door, "Remember, back by five thirty at the latest!" and waved them off. Patrick waved back in acknowledgement.

"Right," he said to Paul and Jenni as soon as they reached the sidewalk, "the first rule is, 'we only go to decorated houses.' The second rule is, 'only wrapped candy.' Sally thinks there's people out there handing out apples to little kids with razor blades hidden inside," he explained to Ashley, rolling his eyes as he said it. "If they offer you a bowl of candy take one each, it's rude to take a handful unless they say you can. Jenni you're allowed to dance and do magic with your wand, Paul you can shoot your gun but not at the person giving out the candy, that wouldn't be polite," Patrick grinned. "If I don't like the look of a house we move on to the next one, okay?" This little speech had brought them to the first house in the neighborhood that had Halloween decorations. Jenni and Paul nodded, both fidgeting with excitement. "Okay. Showtime! First one to the door gets to ring the bell." Liss briefly glanced at Patrick and Ashley before she followed the Ng kids up the path. Patrick was already holding Ashley's hand so he stepped a little closer and kissed her cheek before they brought up the rear.

This set the pattern for the afternoon. The Ng kids took turns to run up and ring doorbells, they all chatted between houses, Ashley and Patrick held hands as they walked and hung back for a moment at every house they visited. At first it was Patrick doing the kissing, then after a few houses Ashley turned and shyly kissed Patrick on the cheek for the first time rather than waiting to be kissed.

"That was nice," he murmured, "I told you I like being the kissee as well as being the kisser."

"I like it too," Ashley grinned back.

Over the course of the next dozen or so houses they took turns. Patrick kissed Ashley on both cheeks, her chin and the tip of her nose, each resulting in smiles or quiet giggles from Ashley. Each of her kisses produced wide grins from Patrick. When, a few houses later, Patrick used his turn to breathe into her ear while he gently kissed its edge Ashley squealed and wriggled away, giggling, which made Patrick giggle too.

"Someone's got very sensitive ears," he smiled into her eyes as she blushed prettily under her gray makeup.

"It tickles," she replied, "but in a nice way."

"Can I try the other one, you know, like a science experiment, see if it's the same?" Patrick asked with laughter in his eyes. When Ashley nodded he did so: her squeal was quieter, less surprised this time Patrick guessed, but her wriggling and giggling were much the same.

"Do you like your ears being kissed?" Ashley asked innocently.

"Yes, but not as much as you seem to," Patrick grinned back. She kissed the edge of his right ear all the same, much to Patrick's delight, then the others were walking back from the house.

That was the first door where they missed out on candy but it wasn't the last. Several houses later, when it was Patrick's turn to kiss Ashley, he surprised her by taking her face in his hands, tilting her head a little then gently brushing his lips against hers, their first kiss on the lips. When Patrick pulled back to see how she felt about that her eyes were closed. He took his hands away and she opened them.

"Are you okay with that?" he asked seriously.

"It was nice," Ashley smiled back.

"Yes it was," Patrick agreed. "Ears are sensitive," he began in a low murmur, stroking a finger up the edge of one ear, smiling at her reaction, "because they're covered in tiny hairs, that's why it tickles in a nice way. On the other hand, lips," he continued, brushing a finger over hers as he said this, "have a lot of nerve endings in them, so they're sensitive in a different way." Interrupted again by the others returning with their latest haul of candy, Patrick and Ashley held hands and grinned their way to the next house, where Ashley tentatively kissed Patrick's lips before hurrying to the door after the Ng kids and Liss. When it was Patrick's turn he went back to kissing Ashley's cheek and she followed his lead.

They had turned back onto Monroe, working their way back to the Brodie's house when Ashley surprised Patrick by stroking his lips with her fingers as she kissed his ear. That gave Patrick an idea, so for his next turn he stroked the edge of her ear as he kissed her lips again. Her resulting surprised wriggle unexpectedly drove her mouth open slightly and her body further into his arms, their closest embrace so far. Patrick hadn't deepened their kiss though their lips had briefly pressed together more firmly and Ashley had felt deliciously soft and warm when she gently collided against him, his hands naturally gravitating to her waist. She quickly broke away, a deeper blush flooding her face.

"Too much, too soon?" Patrick asked lightly, brushing her hair out of her eyes to see her expression.

Ashley nodded mutely before whispering "Sorry."

"No, don't be sorry," Patrick smiled, taking her hand and stroking it reassuringly with his thumb. "It was my bad, I won't do that again," his voice dropped to a whisper as he added with a wink, "unless you ask me to."

Ashley giggled, Patrick grinned and the awkward moment was gone.

"C'mon. Let's go get some candy," Patrick led her to where the others were standing by the door. The young man in the doorway looked old enough to have left high school but clearly wasn't at college or in a job. He was talking rather than dishing out candy.

"What would you guys do if I chose 'trick' instead of 'treat?'" he asked, sounding contemptuous to Patrick.

"That's my cue," Patrick whispered to Ashley as he let go of her hand and stepped forward. He mutely picked his genuine quarter out of his pocket, held it aloft so it caught the low sun and everyone's attention, then twirled it around his fingers. He held it up again, clapped his hands then suddenly he was flexing empty fingers theatrically: the coin had vanished. He mimed looked around as if puzzled, jumped theatrically when he saw Jenni, pointed at her ear with a big gesture, then as she giggled uncontrollably he made a big fuss of pulling the coin from her ear, as though it had become stuck in there. He held the coin up again and took a silent bow as everyone clapped, even the guy at the door.

"Mom, uh, forgot to buy any Halloween candy, she went to the store to get some more. I really don't have any treats for y'all. I liked your trick, though."

"That's okay, we'll take this instead," Patrick grinned, holding up a gray wallet.

"Hey! Give that back!" the guy exclaimed, annoyed, his hand flying to his empty pocket.

"Be cool, man, it's just a magic trick," Patrick soothed, handing over the wallet with a grin. "It's all there, I didn't take anything," Patrick added as the guy suspiciously riffled through his cash. "You did ask for a trick. Did you think we were gonna throw eggs at the windows or something like that?"

"I didn't think you'd steal my wallet, you little punk," he growled, looking menacing.

"Hey, I found it out here on the porch, man! You musta dropped it earlier. All I did was think of a cool way to give it back!" Patrick's tone of aggrieved honesty was very convincing even though Ashley was sure she hadn't seen him stoop to pick up anything. The guy looked confused now.

"Well, okay then," he said weakly, now angry not because he'd been robbed but because he'd been outsmarted by a little kid.

"C'mon, guys, the man already said we aren't going to get any candy here," Patrick declared pointedly, turned as if to go – then turned back.

"Y'know, it's customary to give a small reward when someone returns your lost wallet. Ya wanna teach these little kids that they should keep it if they find a wallet lying on the sidewalk?"

"Uh… no…"

"Got any dollar bills in there?" The guy opened his wallet again, reluctantly pulling a one out, holding it out to Patrick.

"Not me, one each for these two," he said, indicating Jenni and Paul while maintaining eye contact with the guy. The guy grudgingly pulled out another dollar, held them both up. Jenni and Paul looked like they didn't want to go any nearer to the guy so Patrick put a hand on each of their shoulders and said kindly, "it's okay, sometimes you get money instead of candy, if the candy runs out, isn't that right?"

"Yeah," the guy mumbled, stepping forward and dropping the bills into their candy bags.

"What do we say?" Patrick prompted and the Ngs chorused a subdued 'thank you.' None of the others said anything.

As soon as they were back on the sidewalk Liss turned to Patrick.

"What was that all about?"

"That guy's mom didn't forget the candy, look at that place," Patrick gestured back towards the Halloween decorations that littered the lawn. "He ate all the candy this afternoon when his mom was putting up the decorations outside and he didn't tell her, that's why she had to go to the store this late in the day to get some more. You could see a coin jar just inside the door, his mom left it so he could give out quarters until she got back but instead that sleazeball helped himself to a handful – did you see how heavy his right pocket was? He asked for a trick because he wanted to get rid of us, this time of day it's only the littlest kids who are out, the ones with early bedtimes, they aren't gonna pull any tricks. That guy's a– bad man," he finished, glancing at Jenni as he said it, "I wasn't gonna let him get away with something like that. Here's his mom back from the store," he added as a car pulled into the driveway. At the edge of their hearing the woman who got out shouted to the young man who was still standing at the door, 'I got some more, Wes, and if you even touch another piece of candy I swear…'

"I still don't believe you're psychic," Liss said.

"Did you pick his pocket?" Ashley asked, looking half confused, half scandalised.

"What kind of a question is that?" Patrick replied, then before she could answer he gave the tip of her nose an exaggerated kiss, complete with 'kissy' noises, which made Paul and Jenni giggle and Liss roll her eyes. Ashley laughed with embarrassment which made Patrick laugh too.

"I knew all along that's what you two were up to, you know," Liss said, though with a smile. All questions were forgotten as they approached the next house.

* * *

Everyone had a decent haul of candy by five twenty-five when they returned to the Brodie house. Ashley went upstairs with Liss and Sally to clean off the makeup and change out of her costume while Patrick took Jenni and Paul into the kids TV room. The channel announced Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles next so Patrick was able to settle the Ng kids before he snuck away. In the other TV room he flicked the channels until he found the early evening news. He only had to watch for a few minutes before there it was: a video of his dad, handcuffed between two uniformed dudes, being taken from court and put in the back of a prison transport van. Patrick thought Alex looked good in the suit, almost like a rich guy. At least he wasn't shackled and wearing prison fatigues. Taylor must have negotiated that as well as him going straight to Volano. Now the Governor was on the TV. They didn't report his whole speech but some phrases kept being repeated, something called 'Black Monday' and 'rogue investment firms', neither of which sounded good. They even interviewed the Governor live in the news studio after the report. That must mean it was a big story and Patrick guessed that Ashley's mom would report it all in a lot more detail tomorrow in the Carson Springs Tribune. The news moved on and Patrick switched off the TV, his mind crowded with thoughts.

* * *

It was a squeeze in the back of Sally's car but Patrick enjoyed being squashed up between Ashley and the door. She didn't seem to be as conscious of it as he was, chatting happily to Sally and Liss during the trip back to her house. Patrick walked her to the front door and kissed her on the lips one last time before she disappeared inside.

As Patrick walked away from Ashley's porch he wasn't in the mood for a party. He had been unexpectedly affected seeing Alex so roundly condemned by the people on the TV news. The last thing he wanted to do right now was participate in lame party games organized by earnest Church types. The thought struck him that he might get the chance to observe the Sunday School leader – Jim something? – in his natural habitat before he had to do battle with the guy on Sunday. He brightened, pasting a smile on his face as he got back in the car.


	14. Chapter 14

Tran and Ashley were both in home room when Patrick arrived on Thursday morning. Tran at least looked at him, Ashley spotted him then quickly looked away, her face a picture of nervous indecision. Patrick guessed her mom had indeed concluded he must be Alex Jane's son – or at least had decided Ashley shouldn't be dating a boy in foster care who called his lawyer when he got detentions. He wandered over to Tran first.

"Hi Chi, No ISS yet? You not trying hard enough?" Patrick grinned.

Tran's lips quirked up. "You fixed it for me yesterday, remember, dude? Goole didn't have time to bust my ass because your shark was eating him up and spitting him out."

"Oh yeah, I think I remember that. We both got detention this afternoon though. How does that work?"

"You have to go to Barty's classroom at the end of the day, room 109."

"How long does it take?"

"You're there for an hour, man."

"But I can do homework, yeah?"

"If you want. I sleep."

"You're kidding me!"

"No, straight up. It drives Barty crazy sometimes, but the rule is you have to be quiet. Doesn't say anything about doing work."

"Don't you get in more trouble if you don't do the work?"

"I get in trouble if I do the work or not." Tran was sounding defensive. "I told you, Goole has it in for me."

Patrick shook his head. There was something going on there but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"You're more hardcore than me, Chi. I think I'll still do homework. I don't have anything better to do and one hour will be enough to finish it all. Then my whole evening is free afterwards to do what I want."

"Whatever, man."

Patrick nodded his goodbye then went to perch on Ashley's desk.

"Hey," he said quietly. "You okay? You seem a bit down."

"Patrick, is your dad called 'Alex'? Is he, well, are you in foster care because," here she lowered her voice to a whisper, "he's in prison?"

"Yes."

"Because my mom was in Sacramento yesterday and she said–"

"Ashley," Patrick interrupted, "yes. That was my dad. That's why I'm in care. He was on the TV news yesterday. I guess your mom's written something about it for the newspaper today."

"Yes she has! Did – did you know about it all along?"

"The first I heard about anything was a week ago when they arrested him and put me in care."

"But mom thought you must have wondered where all the money was coming from, even if you didn't know?"

Patrick shook his head wryly. "If we had any money he wouldn't have had to plead guilty. We live in a trailer. We work at a carnival. Getting rich might have been his plan but he didn't get very far."

"But the Governor said–"

"That's all just politics. Our lawyer made a deal, dad got less time in a lower security prison in return for pleading guilty and agreeing to everything the Governor wanted. On TV he made it sound like Dad was responsible for Black Monday or something. In the real world he filled in some forms wrong, our lawyer said."

"So you never saw any money?"

Patrick snorted a wry laugh. "My whole life I never even lived in a house. That fancy suit dad wore yesterday in court was the most expensive he ever had, twenty-five bucks from the Sacramento Goodwill store last week."

"Then why–"

"Ashley," Patrick interrupted again. "This isn't complicated. I'm the same guy today that I was yesterday. I still like libraries. I enjoyed going trick-or-treating with you and I thought you did too. I haven't changed overnight. I'm not saying Dad's innocent, I'm saying I didn't know anything about it beforehand. Either you believe me... or you don't."

Ashley looked away. Her mom had clearly told Ashley all about Alex, everything the judge and the Governor said about him, anyway, expecting Ashley to finish with Patrick because of it. It suddenly struck Patrick that Ashley wanted to believe him, not break up with him. That was encouraging, she was surely more likely to keep quiet about his dad if she liked him. Patrick had warmed to her over the last couple of days but his goal hadn't changed. Right now he needed to act if he wanted to minimize the gossip about him.

"I wanted to ask a favor," Patrick went on. "After I saw my dad on TV I remembered what you said, that your mom tells you all the news she hears about kids in this school. So I wanted to ask you, please don't tell anyone what your mom said about my dad. I don't want everyone here judging me because of him. Please." As he asked this Mrs. Bolton came in closely followed by Andy, so Ashley didn't have the chance to respond. Andy grinned a greeting as both he and Patrick sat at their desks.

It wasn't until the bell rang that Ashley was able to speak to Patrick alone while the classroom emptied around them. She blocked his way as he stood to go to class.

"Patrick, I promise I won't say anything to anyone about your dad," she said seriously without preamble, a determined look in her eyes. Patrick broke into a wide grin, seized her hand and kissed her.

"Thank you," he replied, letting his affection show on his face. This time she didn't blush at his attention, she simply stood in the middle of the classroom and beamed back at him.

* * *

"Ms. Smith, please can I have a word with you?" Patrick had arrived early for math.

"Sure, Patrick, if it's quick. What's this about?"

"Someone's arranging for me to do the test to move up to seventh grade math next week. How much of what we talked about last time would I have to cover to pass that test, ma'am?"

"All of it, I'm afraid, Patrick. Did you take a look through the extra text book I gave you?"

Patrick ignored her question. "What would happen if I didn't pass?"

"You'd stay in my class with the sixth graders." Smith looked a little puzzled, "but there's no reason–"

"Would you mind if that happened, ma'am?" Patrick cut in. "If I stayed in your class?"

"I'd like to keep teaching you, Patrick, very much," she smiled. "Any teacher would enjoy having someone as able as you in their class."

"Thank you, ma'am, that means a lot to me," Patrick replied, thinking how much better school would be if that were true. "I think I'd like you to be my math teacher." He returned her smile before he sat at a desk at the very front of the class. It wasn't until the class ended that he noticed Tran getting up from a desk at the back.

* * *

"Hey, you, Patrick Jane!" The industrial arts workshop was filling up though Mayer hadn't arrived yet. Patrick was sitting with Andy and Ashley when Rico came up to them, flanked by two jockabees.

"What is it, Rico?" Andy asked.

"I'm talking to little Janey here," Rico jerked his head in Patrick's direction. "Jane, that's a girl's name. Not sure if you're a guy or a girl, hey, _Jane_?"

Patrick had heard this kind of thing all his life, it didn't needle him any more.

"What do you want, Rico?" he asked mildly.

"Did you mess with my locker?"

"Man, that was an epic prank, I wish it _was_ me," Patrick replied, sounding utterly sincere, his eyes steady on Rico as he said it. The boy flushed angrily.

"You were called up to see Goole yesterday morning."

"Yeah, you weren't the only one to get me a detention on Monday. I had to call my lawyer to sort out that mess." Patrick was enjoying the effect his cool manner was having on Rico.

"_You're_ the kid who set his lawyer on Goole yesterday?" Rico couldn't stop himself, he looked surprised and sounded impressed, then looked angry with himself.

Patrick smiled smugly, noting how much it stoked the flames. "Everyone seems to think it's a big deal," he shrugged.

"Why do you think it was me got you that detention in art class?" Rico demanded, glancing at Andy.

Well that confession is a big clue, Patrick thought, but said, "I saw the sleeve of your yellow sweater out of the corner of my eye when you did it. But I'm no rat. I was trying to think of a way to get back at you when Prankmaster Jeneral got there first. There's no way I could top the locker thing so I decided he did that for all of us, like Batman or the Lone Ranger."

Rico went to take a step towards Patrick when suddenly Tran was in front of him, looking as ready for a fight as he always did. Patrick was again impressed at how quietly Tran could move and how much bigger he was than the rest of them.

"You lookin' for trouble again, Rico?" Tran murmured. Rico fell back so quickly he seemed to jump away from Tran, bumping into one of his henchmen. He shot them all a dirty look but could say no more as Mr. Mayer chose that moment to enter the classroom.

"Tran!" Mayer was at their workbench in an instant. "What's going on here?"

"Rico seemed to think I might be Prankmaster Jeneral, sir. He came over here to ask me about it," Patrick explained. Mayer turned to look at him.

"Why would he think that, Patrick?" Mayer had that shrewd, calculating expression on his face again.

"I was called to the Principal's office yesterday morning, sir, just after it happened. A few people have asked if it was because of the thing with Rico's locker."

Mayer's expression told Patrick that he accepted this explanation at face value, much to Patrick's relief. "Patrick didn't have to see the Principal because of your locker, Enrico," he said to the boy and Patrick inwardly rejoiced: Rico might not believe him but he clearly believed Mayer. "You need to go back to your workbench." Mayer watched Rico and his friends cross the room then turned back to Tran. "So why were you here with Enrico?" he asked.

"Chi didn't do anything, he's sitting with us at this bench today," Patrick volunteered.

"Let him speak for himself." Mayer's eyes didn't leave Tran.

"I'm sitting at this bench today Mr Mayer," Tran mumbled.

"You making more new friends, Patrick?" Mayer asked skeptically.

"You can't have too many friends, sir," Patrick replied earnestly.

Mayer looked at Andy and Ashley now. "I hope you two will be a positive influence on this pair rather than the other way around," Mayer warned before he moved away to start the class.

"What was all that about?" Patrick whispered to Tran at the first opportunity during the class.

"Me and Rico got a history. Like I said yesterday, the Lobos and the Crew. Mayer broke up a couple of fights last year, that's why he's so jumpy," Tran said casually.

"Well thanks for turning up when you did." Patrick hated violence, especially when it was directed against him. It sounded like Rico was more of a problem than he'd thought, the guy was prepared to tackle someone as big as Tran. Or maybe not: he'd brought a couple of jockabees and that was when he'd only been confronting Patrick. Rico clearly liked the odds stacked in his favor before he acted.

"Thanks for getting Mayer off my back, dude. Were you, uh, serious about, y'know, being friends?"

Patrick looked at Tran curiously. "Yeah, Chi. I'm new. I need to make friends. You do too from what you told me yesterday."

"Your other friends don't like me." Tran looked oddly shy as he glanced down the bench towards Ashley and Andy.

"You make them a bit nervous, that's all. If you chat like you did at lunch yesterday you'll be fine."

"What do I say?"

"You can always talk about what we're doing here, Chi," Patrick said with a smile. "Working together on a project is a good ice breaker."

* * *

The group of people Patrick increasingly thought of as the New Gang – himself, Andy, Ashley, Liss and Julia – had lunch together again. Liss told the story from yesterday about the magic trick and the wallet, Patrick gave a humorous account of the church party and Julia had more 'Mr. and Mrs.' jokes. Even Andy joined in, telling a short anecdote about basketball practice yesterday. Ashley was more subdued but Patrick was pleased, taking it as an indication of her good faith regarding gossip about his dad.

Science class was again dull, covering the ground he'd read for homework. Patrick sat with Ashley but spent most of the class watching Tran. The boy got out his book but only pretended to write down what the teacher was dictating to them, it was filled with doodles, not writing. Patrick felt again that he was missing something important, Tran seemed so determined not to learn even though he was equally determined to do what his mom wanted and stay in school. It didn't add up.

Patrick's last class that day, physical education, was track and field. Ashley was with the girls again, Andy was in a group of boys doing high jump and Tran was alone with something heavy at the far end of the field. Patrick joined the runners. He liked to run and more importantly liked to be able to run. Running had gotten him out of trouble more than once. This coach's warm-up routine was very different from the one he had learned at elementary school though Patrick thought it was better, once he had the hang of it. Let loose at last on the running track he settled into his natural pace for distance and simply kept going, in the pack but careful never to be in the lead.

* * *

Patrick was first to arrive at Barty's classroom. He opened the door and a teacher he had never seen before looked up from his desk.

"Mr. Barty? I'm here for detention, sir," Patrick began.

The man looked at him in astonishment. "What do you think you're doing, boy? You knock on the door, you don't barge in like that! Wait outside with the others until I call you."

Patrick thought, what the hell? But he said, "Sorry, sir," and went back outside.

"And close the door!" Barty yelled from inside. Patrick did so just as a girl arrived, followed by Tran and another boy. The girl seemed to be the oldest of them, tall and with the heavy black makeup Patrick was starting to associate with eighth grade girls. The boy looked younger than him, probably in sixth grade.

"Why do we have to wait out here?" Patrick asked Tran. In all the classes so far teachers had expected the kids to go straight into the classroom when they arrived.

"'Cos Barty's a prick," Tran shrugged. This made the girl snort with laughter. Tran rounded on her. "You laughing at me?" he demanded, hands bunched into fists at his sides as he advanced and she shrank back.

"Hey, Chi," Patrick intervened quickly, "what you said, that was funny, in a good way, witty, like a comedian on the TV. Her laughing, it's a compliment, dude!"

Chi turned to look at Patrick so he nodded encouragingly. "She was agreeing with you, not laughing at you."

Tran looked back at the girl, who was still looking scared. "You thought I told a joke?"

"Yes!" she nodded urgently. "I wasn't laughing at you."

Tran's posture subtly relaxed and Patrick started breathing again.

"Chi," Patrick began, sounding serious and putting his hand lightly on Tran's arm so he turned to face him again, "dude, you know you can't ever hit a girl, right?"

"I wasn't gonna hit her," Tran's eyes widened and he sounded surprised as he said it. He turned back to the girl. "I wasn't gonna hit you!" Tran finally stepped back from her.

"Okay, Chi, okay," Patrick soothed, "you weren't gonna hit her, I know you wouldn't do something like that but look at her, she doesn't know you, you scared her, she thought you might hit her for a moment there."

"Yeah," she managed, a certain amount of anger mixed with the relief flushing in her face now.

"I'm sorry." Tran even managed to make his apology sound aggressive. "I don't like people laughing at me."

"I was laughing at how you called that prick a prick," she clarified, jerking her chin towards the closed door of the classroom just as Barty opened it as if on cue. None of them could help it, Barty's sudden appearance at the same time as her unexpected cussing had them all laughing, even the boy who had taken no part in the proceedings.

"What's going on here?" Barty demanded.

Patrick straightened his face, looked Barty in the eye and replied, "Nothing, sir, the young lady told us a joke at the same time that you opened the door, that's all."

This got a him a startled look from the girl – Patrick guessed she'd never been described as a 'young lady' before, at least not by someone under the age of fifty – and Barty eyed them all suspiciously as Patrick's words resulted in more sniggering. Patrick could actually see the moment Barty decided to dismiss their laughter, after all nervous giggling was hardly unusual in teenagers. He barked "inside" at them and pointed out widely spaced desks for them to occupy.

Barty took the register then silence descended. Patrick spent the first thirty minutes completing all his homework then he looked around, bored. Barty had designated the seating to minimize the chances of interaction but Patrick could see both Tran and the girl from his seat. She was doing homework, Tran had his head down on his arms, eyes closed. Patrick turned around: the other boy was reading something.

"Eyes front!" Barty called from his desk.

"Sir, what–" Patrick began.

"Put your hand up if you want to talk to me," Barty interrupted, much to Patrick's annoyance. Nevertheless Patrick raised his hand.

"What–" he started again.

"You wait until I tell you to speak," Barty broke in again. Patrick sat with his hand raised, idly wondering if there was some kind of factory nearby that mass produced assholes. Perhaps instead they were hand-made by a suitably sour-faced local craftsman. Or, and this seemed the most likely reason to Patrick, Goole was trying to make himself look good in comparison to his teachers by hiring people who were bigger assholes than himself.

Barty made a show of looking around the classroom for a good long while before he looked back at Patrick.

"Yes?"

"What should I do now I finished my homework, sir?"

"You can check it over to make sure its correct."

"What should I do then, sir?"

"You can read quietly."

"And when I've finished my book?"

"You can sit quietly until the end of detention!"

There was some entertainment to be had in poking at Barty so Patrick waited two minutes then put up his hand again. Barty repeated his little pantomime look-around.

"Yes?" Barty said at last, sounding irritated.

"May I take a bathroom break, sir?" Now there was a faint sound in the room like someone – some people – trying not to laugh.

"Silence!" Barty raised his voice and glared around the room. Patrick's hand was still raised so he turned back to him.

"Yes!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I still need a bathroom break." Patrick looked both contrite and serious. Barty gave him the hairy eyeball for a few moments but Patrick could out-stare a cat.

"The bathrooms are opposite this door," Barty grudgingly said as he stood. "I'm watching from here," he warned as he opened the door to the classroom.

"Thank you, sir," Patrick smiled as he passed Barty in the doorway, who looked pointedly at his watch.

Patrick estimated Barty would become suspicious about his absence in four to six minutes but would allow maybe ten minutes to pass before he was prepared to enter the boys bathroom to chase him out. Patrick whiled away the time by climbing onto the sinks and up to the high window to take a look. The window was barred and frosted, open as far as it could be, and the very limited view was of the dumpsters. He watched idly as the janitor appeared and inadvertently demonstrated the opening mechanism to his unseen audience, including how to deal with the second dumpster when its lid jammed. After eight minutes Patrick crept back to the door to listen. Barely half a minute later he heard Barty's surprisingly soft footsteps and yanked the bathroom door open just as the man reached it from the other side.

"Whoa, sir, you made me jump!" he exclaimed loudly, gratified to note that he had in fact made Barty jump by opening the door as quickly as he had. As he walked ahead of Barty back into the detention room he looked around at his fellow-detainees with a broad grin.

Five minutes later, to Patrick's glee, the boy who had been quiet outside the classroom put his hand up.

"Sir, _I_ need a bathroom break now." Patrick wasn't the only one in the room to choke back his laugh. Barty shouted them all into silence.

"You'll just have to wait fifteen minutes, Casey, you can go after detention finishes."

Damn, Patrick thought, it would have been amusing to watch them all wind Barty up by trooping across the hall one after the other. Now the girl put up her hand then abruptly stood.

"Sir, I need a bathroom break."

"Sit down, Shannon," Barty replied wearily.

"No, sir," she continued to stand, "you don't understand, I _need_ to go to the bathroom _now_." She dug a packet of something out of her bag that Patrick couldn't see but whatever it was made Barty blanch and recoil.

"Oh! Yes! Yes, go!" he replied, waving her to the door.

Patrick caught her triumphant grin as she left the classroom – Barty didn't watch her from the doorway, he noticed, in fact he avoided looking at her at all.

Patrick was playing with his trick coins in his left hand and thinking he had never been so bored in his life when he heard a faint sound. He glanced over to Tran when he heard it again. Yes, Tran had fallen asleep, really asleep not pretending, his breathing deep and regular and starting to turn into gentle snoring. Patrick yet again started contemplating why Tran hadn't even attempted to do any homework, why the thought that someone was laughing at him came so readily to his mind, why Barty hadn't objected to him resting his head on the desk and what Barty would do when he noticed Tran's snores. Patrick turned his attention to Barty.

He thought the man had just heard the snoring when Shannon came back into the room, disturbing the quiet. It must have disturbed Tran a little too, as when silence descended once more it was truly silent for a minute or so. Then to Patrick's delight there it was again, Tran's soft snoring had resumed. Patrick watched Barty and was rewarded just moments later when the man clearly heard a snore. Barty's eyes flew to Tran. Patrick just had time to drop his own eyes to the book in front of him as the man looked around the classroom. When Patrick ventured another glance at Barty the man was again doing whatever he'd been working on throughout the detention. He didn't care that Tran was asleep, or wasn't prepared to do anything about it. Well that was an anticlimax.

The last few minutes of the detention dragged out. Finally Barty was telling them all to pack their bags and go home.

"Hey Chi, you catching a bus now?" Patrick began as they walked out.

"Yeah, one into the bus station in town then another out to the group home."

"I'm going into the city too, to the library. You wanna come?"

"No way, man!" There was something in the way Tran said it that clicked in Patrick's head. Tran's mom couldn't read or write, he's said she was learning in prison. Tran didn't write down what the teachers said although they dictated the notes very slowly. He didn't do homework, not even when given ample time during detention.

"You can't read, can you, Chi?" Patrick's tone was curious rather than mocking so he was unprepared for what happened next. Tran grabbed Patrick by his jacket and slammed him back into the bank of lockers that lined this part of the hall with a loud echoing boom.

"Who told you I can't read? You think it's funny?"

Instinctively Patrick cringed, "No! Please! You don't want to hit me!" That seemed to be surprising enough for Tran to pause so Patrick continued, talking rapidly. "Barty will be along any second, we just made a hell of a noise, he'll give you ISS for sure if he catches you. This is just a misunderstanding, Chi, you don't want to get more ISS over a mistake."

Tran released Patrick just in time. Barty moved into view as Patrick was still stumbling away from the side of the hall.

"What's all this noise?" Barty demanded. Patrick put on his most innocent face.

"Noise? When I swung my bag over my shoulder I overbalanced a bit, Mr. Barty, and bumped into the lockers. I guess it was kinda loud." Barty eyed them both suspiciously but Tran said nothing and Patrick, still wide-eyed, asked, "Was there something else you wanted, sir?"

"Go home, both of you!" Barty snapped, then followed them to the exit. Once outside they continued walking in silence towards the bus stop as Barty peeled off and headed towards his car.

All this time Patrick was thinking. Tran was a big guy with a hair-trigger temper. Patrick didn't want to get his own back for what just happened, he'd been scared but Tran hadn't actually hurt him, his bag had cushioned the blow. Normally Patrick would avoid him at all costs from now on but Tran didn't have any friends and that made him... malleable. Tran was a loose cannon – but Patrick thought maybe he could turn Tran into something else.

Angela had been right a week ago, Patrick did make people angry enough to want to beat him up, he didn't even know he was doing it sometimes and they weren't always as easy to distract as Tran. If his first week of school had taught him anything it was that he couldn't help being himself at least some of the time. If he could turn Tran into a loyal henchman it would definitely improve his odds when – not if – he irked Rico or someone like him. It was worth a shot.

Also Patrick felt a little sorry for Tran. The boy went about things the wrong way but it seemed to Patrick he could be taught better ways. He was sure Tran was so suspicious of people because he couldn't read. Hell, just finding your way around school was really hard if you couldn't read building names or signposts. If he couldn't read, Patrick mused, it would feel as though everyone else was keeping him in the dark. No wonder he was angry all the time.

"I'm really sorry, Chi," Patrick began cautiously, watching him carefully so he would have some kind of chance to flee if he said the wrong thing again. "I wasn't laughing at you. Reading, that's my thing, I enjoy libraries and reading, it's what I do, like Andy Williams does basketball. I don't laugh at Andy because he's more into basketball than reading. I think not being able to read must be horrible, I don't think it's funny. I wasn't laughing at you."

Tran turned, misery suffusing his features. "Did I hurt you, man? Jeez, I'm sorry I got mad. This is so messed up!" Tran was tugging at his own hair in distress as he said this.

"Hey, Chi, it's okay, its cool." Patrick put his hand on Tran's arm again to calm him, get his attention. "You didn't hurt me. Why did you think I was laughing at you?"

"Because that's what the other kids from the home used to do. They'd give me the TV guide and ask what was next just so they could laugh at me or get me into trouble. They said I was stupid."

Patrick had a very good idea why those kids didn't do that any more but he said, "I don't think you're stupid, Chi, I think you're a witty guy. Can you read Vietnamese?"

"Nah, man. Mom isn't much of a reader in any language and grandma died when I was little."

"Did you go to elementary school?"

"Yeah I went, Mom made me go. They always used the same books to teach reading. I learned to say the right words for the pictures on the page and they thought I was learning to read. I copied out letters and they thought I was learning to write."

That was interesting. The problem wasn't that Tran hadn't been given the opportunity to learn. He'd have to do some research in the library about that. "What's your thing, then, Chi, what do you like to do? You got a favourite sports team or TV show or something?"

"I like video games. They have a NES at the group home. Best thing about that place," Tran added with a smile.

"What's a NES?"

"It's a console, man, Nintendo! Super Mario Brothers and Donkey Kong!"

"See, now I feel stupid. I never played any of those. I've seen Donkey Kong at the arcade."

"At the arcade I like Star Wars, I can do it to the end more than once on a single quarter, I usually get the high score. You ever played it? Vector graphics like in the movie when he blows up the Death Star."

"I liked the movies but I never played the video game."

"I like the movies too, man, but playing the game is like being in the movie, the part where he's flying the X-wing at the end."

"That's pretty cool."

"Yeah. You'll have to come with me to the arcade some time, I'll show it to you."

"You going there now, Chi?"

"Don't you have to go to the library?"

"I was going there for fun, like I said, reading's my thing, but I can go there any time. Right now I'd like to go to the arcade with you instead, if you want to show me Star Wars."

"Yeah man!" Tran grinned with delight. He went on to talk about video games and how to play them for the whole bus ride, though it was pretty much incomprehensible to Patrick.

The arcade turned out to be even closer to the bus station than the city library. The Star Wars machine was occupied when they arrived so Tran left his quarter above the buttons to indicate he was next before starting to play another machine while they waited. Either Tran was pretty good or not many people had played it today as he made it onto the high score table, though he simply hit the button repeatedly until 'AAA' appeared in the list against his score. The kid playing Star Wars was down to his last life by then so they joined the people watching around that machine.

"If you like, if you don't mind, I can put your name into the high score table at the end," Patrick whispered to Tran. "Your name will fit, 'Chi', three letters, you can tell the world that was your score. Tell everyone who passes this machine, anyway."

"Okay, if you like." Tran tried to sound casual but Patrick's suggestion had put a smile on his face.

Tran _was_ good at Star Wars. When the TIE fighters stopped shooting at him for a moment Patrick said so and was rewarded with another grin from Tran. After the Death Star exploded he said, "You make it look so easy, dude!" and got a quick "Thanks, man!" in return as Patrick surreptitiously started a little round of applause going in the now much larger crowd around the machine. Tran looked around, beaming, before the game started again.

Tran played it through two and a half times before he lost his final life, making it onto the top of the high score table. Patrick started everyone clapping and cheering, got Tran to turn around, then quickly entered 'CHI' as the name while Tran basked in the applause. He didn't want to humiliate the boy, after all. When he'd finished and the high scores were glowing on the screen with Tran's name at the top Patrick shamelessly worked the audience with a loud 'let's hear it for Chi, everyone!' clapping his hands to encourage it as long as he could.

When it died down and the crowd started to disperse Patrick checked the time before turning to Tran.

"I have to go get my bus. You staying here, Chi?"

"Nah. I'll go to the bus station too." They headed out together. "Man, today was the best day ever!" Tran continued. "It wasn't my highest score but it was the best crowd that I ever had!"

"You're really good at that game."

"Next time you gotta play, you can use my first life, see how far you get."

"Yeah, if you say so, but you're not allowed to laugh when I get blown up in two seconds."

When they got to the bus station Patrick's bus was just pulling in at the stop.

"Hey, dude, thanks," Tran began as Patrick waited for the passengers to get off. "I mean for everything. For being cool and not ratting me out to Barty and coming to the arcade with me. I'm –I'm sorry I got mad."

"That's okay, Chi. Thanks for spooking Rico in Mayer's class. You just need to chill, that's all. Not everyone's laughing at you all the time. Sometimes laughing is good, even, like the girl outside detention today."

"So we're cool, yeah? I like you. You're the first kid who wasn't afraid to talk to me. I'd like us to be cool."

"Sure. Like I said to Mayer, you can't have too many friends."

"Friends." There was Tran's surprisingly shy smile. "I didn't think you meant that before."

Patrick paused for a moment then continued, "Chi, if you ever, y'know, want to try reading again, I'd be happy to help out. You don't have to," Patrick added quickly, "but it's like I said, reading's my thing, what I do for fun. You said I could have your first life on Star Wars next time we visit the arcade so I thought you could try reading with me, if you want. I bet you'd be better at reading than I am at Star Wars," Patrick added with a grin.

"I don't think I'll ever read," Tran mumbled.

"It'd be cool if you could, though," Patrick replied. "Everything's easier if you can read, even little things like road signs, bus destinations, stuff like that. Staying at school like your mom said, staying out of trouble at school, it would all be easier."

"Yeah..."

Patrick could see Tran was thinking about it so he didn't push things. "I'll see you tomorrow, Chi," he waved as he got on his bus.

* * *

"You're very late, Patrick," Sally was looking tired when Patrick got back to the Brodie's house. It was after sunset, though the sky was still pale in the west.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Brodie, after detention I went with a guy called Chi to the arcade near the bus station. Chi's in foster care too, group home. He doesn't have any friends."

"You should have come straight home after detention, Patrick."

At the word 'home' Patrick's thoughts flew to Stoney Ridge. He realized with a pang that Katy and Mick would have gotten married today at the courthouse. He wondered how the set up was going for their party on Saturday.

"I'd like to go home." The words slipped out before he could stop them so he added, "Mrs. Brodie, am I allowed to go over there tonight? To Stoney Ridge?"

"You're home late from a detention because you were out enjoying yourself at the amusement arcade and now you think it's okay to go out with your friends again tonight? No, Patrick. You're grounded this evening." Sally looked determined.

Patrick was astonished, he hadn't been expecting anything like this. "But I did their detention! I've already been punished for what happened at school!"

"It's not much of a punishment when your lawyer found some loophole to get most of your detentions cancelled! When you go to the arcade afterwards as though nothing happened! A detention is supposed to be an opportunity to reflect on your behavior. You're not going to make me change my mind about this, Patrick. You don't get rewarded for attending a detention."

Rewarded? What the hell? Hanging out with Tran wasn't a reward, it was contingency planning with the added possibility of violence. Going home wasn't a reward, it was _home_. It occurred to Patrick that Sally thought of her house as his home, she thought of herself and William as his substitute family. Patrick shook his head in disbelief.

"I should have let you call the Sheriff last week, at least in juvie they don't pretend It's not a prison!" Patrick realized he had shouted this and turned away from Sally's shocked expression.

"Where are you going? Dinner's on the table!"

"I'm not hungry. I'm gonna be in my room. Or do I need permission even for that?" Patrick didn't wait for a response and didn't stop until he'd slammed his door.

* * *

It was nearly nine when there was a knock on the door to Patrick's room. After a moment Patrick heard William Brodie speaking.

"You don't have to talk to me this evening, Patrick, but we do have to talk." William had just turned away when he heard the door being opened behind him. Patrick was in his pajamas and dressing gown. "I'm sorry, Patrick," William began, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't wake me." Patrick's tone was expressionless.

"I, uh, thought you might be hungry by now." William was holding a plate containing a sandwich and a glass of milk.

"Can we take this downstairs, sir?" Patrick asked. William nodded.

William leaned against the counter in silence as Patrick sat at the kitchen table and wolfed down the sandwich as if he hadn't eaten in days, then polished off the milk in one go, leaving a milk moustache that made him look even younger than usual. When he'd finished he raised his eyes to William.

"You throwing me out, Mr. Brodie, getting Ms. Lazczyck to move me somewhere else?"

"For shouting at Sally? No, Patrick, we're both used to being shouted at by teenagers. You should hear Melissa when she gets going," William added with the merest hint of a smile. "Could you tell me why you shouted?"

"Your wife told me I couldn't go home. I didn't realize being allowed to visit home was a reward for good behavior. Mr. Taylor thought I could visit whenever I wanted, you said I could. Then suddenly because I got a detention I wasn't allowed to go home." Patrick's voice cracked a little on the word 'home' and he looked away, blinking.

"Stoney Ridge?"

Patrick shook his head, took a deep breath. "The carnival. I've moved around all my life, sir. Home isn't a place, it's wherever my kind of people are."

"This is supposed to be your home for now, Patrick, while your dad's in jail."

Patrick shook his head again. "Home is full of people you trust," he replied flatly.

"You really thought we'd ask Stella to find you another foster family because you shouted at Sally?"

"You said yourself, if you thought I committed a crime you'd call the cops. Why not get the CPS to move me if I cause trouble here?"

"We want to be your foster parents, Patrick. If I did call the Sheriff we'd still support you through court, come visit you in Juvenile Hall." William said it so earnestly Patrick couldn't help but grin. The man honestly thought that was a comforting thing to say. Well at least Patrick had a clearer idea of where he stood. William visibly relaxed at the sight of Patrick's smile. "You trust your friends at the carnival?"

"With my life," Patrick replied automatically, then, grinning at William again, "not with my wallet." William snorted a laugh of his own as the tension between them eased. "Mr. Brodie, am I allowed… Please will you let me go to a wedding party up at Stoney Ridge on Saturday? Katy Barsocky got married at the courthouse today, if I hadn't rented out our RV she would have had to wait until April. I've known her family my whole life, Dad asked the Barsockys to look after me when he was arrested. It'll get going around noon, I could make it back in time for dinner on Sunday."

"A two-day party?"

"Probably longer, sir. People will be coming from all over, but I can get away early so I'm back in time for Sunday dinner here. Please, sir," Patrick added as William hesitated, "it's important that I go, because dad can't."

"Where will you stay?"

Patrick blinked. "At the Ruskin house. I can even give you their telephone number." William seemed to take that at face value.

"I don't think I can refuse, then, Patrick. You can go to this wedding party at the weekend – on one condition. You have to tell me what's going on. I've only been away on business for three days but it seems a lot has been happening here. Trick-or-treating? A girlfriend? A message from the Principal's office about detentions? Epelslang? I just got off the phone with that lawyer Mr. Taylor, he wants me to let you play poker with him. What's going on, Patrick?"

Patrick wiped away the milk from his face with the back of his hand.

"Did you say I could, Mr Brodie? Play Mr. Taylor at poker, I mean." Patrick's look was one of wary hope.

"I told Taylor I wasn't agreeing to anything. What's going on, Patrick?" William asked again.

"You're gonna have to be more specific, sir. Everything you just said is normal life for me."

"Lets start with the gambling. You're thirteen, that's way too young to be gambling."

"I've been playing poker with my friends up at Stoney Ridge for years, sir," Patrick began matter-of-factly. "You might not approve of me playing cards but I'm not going to stop. Being good at cards is important for the act and the act is how we earn our living, Mr. Brodie."

There it was, the point in a conversation with Patrick where William was lost for words. He had been unimpressed by Patrick's defiance, about to chip in before being utterly derailed by the mention of his livelihood. Patrick, who had been watching him closely, lifted a pack of cards out of his dressing gown pocket.

"Play me at snap, sir. You shuffle and deal. Let me show you."

William's curiosity overrode his objections. Snap? He took the pack, shuffled it quickly then dealt out all the cards between them. He let Patrick go first.

"Snap," the boy said calmly after a moment, just as William was turning over his card. When he did so there was another seven, matching the one Patrick had just played. Six cards later he said it again, looking into William's eyes rather than at the cards as he laid his own two of diamonds on top of the two of clubs that William had just exposed. Then again, and again, calling 'snap' before he saw the matching card every time until the whole pack lay face up on the pile between them.

"We're playing with a marked deck?" William asked, his voice radiating opprobrium.

Patrick shook his head. "That would be cheating. I memorized the order of the cards."

"I shuffled them," William replied with a shake of his head.

"No sir, you just cut them five times. Serious card players shuffle by interlacing which ruins this trick but most people shuffle like you did. The sequence was still mostly intact when you dealt them out. Whenever a card was exposed that wasn't what I expected it just reset the sequence, I still knew what the next card would be."

"Oh," William replied weakly, astonished the boy could remember the exact order of all the cards in a pack.

"It is still a trick, snap with two players is the best game for this trick because each card is exposed in turn, which makes it as easy as possible to follow the sequences. So you set up a table, attract a crowd, pick a member of the audience to play snap, do the trick, get the applause and show the hat around, hoping like hell it's dollars not quarters going into the hat. Mostly it's quarters, 'cos most adults think a kid only needs to earn pocket money. Then you do it all over again, and again. Do it too fast and people aren't entertained enough to pay up, too slow and no matter how entertaining you are you won't have earned enough by the end of the day to cover your costs." Patrick watched William's face closely as he explained. He wasn't exactly lying to William. He hadn't done anything like that recently, they made more money with the Boy Wonder act these days, but it had been true when he was younger. Although his little magic act had been created to draw the crowd to his dad's show he'd also been tasked with making money from it.

William was rather taken aback. Patrick was never this chatty.

"I need to play cards, Mr. Brodie. There's plenty of things you stop being good at when you stop practicing, cards is one of them. I thought you'd prefer me playing Taylor because he's less shady than – than most of the adults I play at cards."

"But poker–"

"It's not about the gambling, Mr. Brodie. Well, not just about the gambling. Imagine you met someone new, say a new guy started where you work and you got along well, you wanted to get to know him better. You'd go with him to a bar after work to drink and chat, or invite him and his wife round for dinner or something like that, yeah?"

"Okay..." William wasn't sure where this was going.

"If I want to get to know someone my age I might invite her to come trick-or-treating with me. Your wife seemed to get on pretty well with Ashley yesterday," Patrick added nonchalantly.

"Okay..." William repeated. He wanted to find out all about her, too, but he didn't let Patrick distract him.

"What can I do if the person I'd like to get to know is old enough to be my granddad? I couldn't invite Mr. Taylor to go trick-or-treating," he said with a wide grin, imagining the dapper lawyer with a sheet over his head, pretending to be a ghost.

William was nonplussed. "You're making friends?"

Patrick shrugged and nodded. "We both like to play poker. I imagine Mr. Taylor and I will play for pennies and nickels or for tokens or something because I don't have any money. Playing cards gives us both a reason to hang out and chat. I also get to keep up to speed at cards without getting into... trouble. I was telling the truth, sir, there are some shady gamblers back home."

"So you're telling me gambling with Taylor will keep you _out_ of trouble?"

"It's a win for everybody!" Patrick beamed at him.

I'm coming along."

Patrick looked surprised. "I didn't think you were a gambling man, sir."

"I'm not, but I'm also not comfortable with you going alone to the house of a strange adult to play poker."

"You think he's... sketchy? I don't think so, sir." Patrick was suddenly very thoughtful. "He doesn't... Although he's good at... No, I'm pretty sure he's on the level but I don't mind you coming along, Mr. Brodie, if it means I'm allowed to go," Patrick beamed. "I expect Mr. Taylor will be okay with it too. Or would you find it more reassuring to just turn up unannounced and see what his reaction is?"

William had expected Patrick to object to having a chaperone. It was disconcerting to see him not only fail to object but also to see him thinking so thoroughly and seriously about a man he claimed to want as a friend.

"He doesn't...?" Brodie wanted to understand Patrick's thoughts.

"He doesn't watch kids like a sketchy guy. When he looks at a kid at all it's more like a parent."

"How do you know how a – a sketchy guy watches kids?"

"My dad's good at spotting sketchy guys at the carnival, I picked up a lot from him. Parents are interested in kids but distracted at the same time. Sketchy guys are just interested. A parent's body language is very different from a sketchy guy. Mostly. One time I thought this guy was sketchy, turned out some kid stole his smokes. He was looking for that kid and really needed a cigarette at the same time. As soon as he was able to light up, well, he didn't look sketchy any more."

"Then you said Taylor's good at...?"

"He's a very good poker player, good at bluffing, so he could be good at hiding that he's sketchy. Though dad probably would have said something when we saw him at County if he thought…" Patrick's voice trailed off then he grinned. "Does this mean you'll be taking me to play poker at Mr. Taylor's?"

"I guess it does. It seems I need to call him back."

"Can I call my friend Angela on the phone before you call Mr. Taylor? Then I'll–" Patrick stopped abruptly.

"Is Angela your girlfriend?"

"No sir, she's my best friend from home. She lives in the house when the carnival's at Stoney Ridge. They have a phone.

"Then you'll...?"

Patrick looked sheepish. "I need to unpack."

"But..." William gestured to Patrick's dressing gown and pajamas.

"I, uh, thought that if I was ready for bed then you'd think twice about throwing me out tonight."

"Dear God." William shook his head slowly. "I hope you now know that we aren't going to do that, Patrick. Does this mean you do want to stay with us?"

Patrick shrugged but grinned. "I guess so. Mr. Brodie."


	15. Chapter 15

Patrick sought out Liss before breakfast on Friday morning. He tapped on her door, not so sure how this worked. She had been in his room at Halloween but he'd been in very few bedrooms, let alone one belonging to a girl.

"It's Patrick," he called through the door, not wanting to surprise her. She opened it a moment later, dressed – though only in jeans and a spaghetti-strap undershirt. The room behind her was extraordinarily messy, with clothes and a lot of less identifiable things liberally scattered across every available surface. She hadn't brushed her hair yet.

"What?"

"Um." Suddenly this was unexpectedly intimate, Alex's words about temptation rising unbidden to the front of his mind.

Liss didn't notice his discomfort at first, she had turned away to grab all the things from a chair and throw them onto the bed, adding to the mess there. Patrick was sure he glimpsed discarded underwear which only increased his unease. Liss turned to him as he continued to hesitate at the door.

"Well, come in! You knocked, after all."

Patrick left the doorway open and picked his way to the chair she had cleared. He was surprised at how uncomfortable he felt at first, although starting to override that feeling now was his usual curiosity. Patrick wasn't unfamiliar with seeing women in various stages of undress – backstage during costume changes when they shared a venue with other acts – but this was something else, the lack of a professional context making all the difference in the world. His eyes roamed over everything as his discomfort waned and his curiosity increased. He began to relax and almost unthinkingly started to hot-read the room and its contents.

"Is it always this messy?" Stuff made her feel secure, Patrick noted, some stuff anyway, the personal things like photos and ornaments. The mess both exposed and concealed the personal, allowing it to be on display to her while hiding its significance from the eyes of others – most others – behind the ephemera of her everyday life.

"You sound like Sally." He glanced at Liss, who was clearly amused by his uncharacteristic reticence. She started pulling a blouse on. The familiar activity helped calm him, he'd seen women get dressed a thousand times. "You haven't been in many girls' bedrooms, then?" Liss asked, grinning.

Patrick was rapidly recovering his composure. "I haven't been in many bedrooms, period," he admitted. "I lived in a trailer all my life. My aunt used to live with us but she moved out when she got married." When he had still been a child, he now realized. Lily's presence in the trailer had been a very feminine one but so familiar to Patrick it had barely registered as such on his radar. Entering Liss's room had been a jarringly visceral experience.

"So what did you want?"

"I wanted to ask you something." He stretched his legs out, equilibrium nearly restored.

"Well, duh!" Liss rolled her eyes as she finished dressing and picked up her hair brush.

"It's Friday."

"Thanks, Einstein, I did know that. We get our grades today."

"Oh?" This managed to distract him. "How does that work?"

"They hand out report cards in home room, you bring it home for Sally to sign, then you take the return slip back on Monday."

"Cool," Patrick nodded. "Er, our deal finishes today."

"What deal?"

"We agreed I could have lunch with you and your friends this week because I didn't know anyone else. Well, it's the end of the week. I made some friends. Do you want me to sit somewhere else now at lunch time?"

"Oh!" Liss turned to look at Patrick, disappointment written on her face. "Don't you want to sit with us any more?"

"Yes I do, but you don't have to let me if you don't want."

"No, I like you guys. You and Ashley, anyway. Andy Williams is okay, a bit quiet. What's the name of that other guy?"

"Chi Tran. He's in care too, group home on the other side of town."

Liss seemed unimpressed. "Is he a bully? Ash and Andy are scared of him."

"Nah. He's just got some issues, that's all."

"We all got issues, Patrick." Oh, that was revealing, that would explain why Liss seemed so spiky all the time. Why cut anyone slack when it felt like no-one in the world did the same for you?

"And wouldn't the world be a better place if we all sympathized more because of it?" Patrick shot back in saccharine tones. Bullseye.

"Ha, sympathize? You? For no reason? When hell freezes over, Don Patrick! You got your consigliere and your moll, picking up a bodyguard now, are you?"

Although this also came uncomfortably close to home Patrick swallowed the first words that came to mind as he looked around her room at the sad, gimcrack relics of Liss's happy childhood, carefully hidden in plain sight, and at the fragility that she tried to conceal in the same way behind her defiant expression. Brothers and sisters fight, he told himself, doing his best to ignore his earlier decidedly un-brotherly thoughts. Deflection, not confrontation.

"That's a bit harsh, Liss," he began mildly. "I thought you said you liked me and Ashley. I don't think anyone could call Andy a mafioso. And what would that make you and Julia and your other friends?"

He caught Liss's eye, waggled his eyebrows and started whistling the theme from 'The Godfather'. Liss burst out laughing and Patrick joined her.

* * *

Ashley looked upset when Patrick got to home room. Patrick waved a quick 'hi' to Tran then perched on his usual spot at Ashley's desk.

"Hey, what happened?" he asked gently, stroking her hair out of her eyes, though he was sure he knew.

"I argued with Mom."

Patrick didn't ask why they fought. "Is it just you and your mom at home?"

"Yeah. Mom got divorced when I was little. I go stay with my dad in the summer, he lives near Seattle. He remarried, I have two little half-sisters up there but down here it's just Mom and me."

"It can be intense when there's just two of you. There's just me and Dad, too. Do you want to talk about it?"

Ashley shook her head, looking miserable but determined.

"Then is it okay to talk about tonight instead?"

"Tonight?"

Patrick's grin was equal parts mischief and anticipation, his eyes twinkling. "Will you be able to come out with me tonight, or did she ground you?"

"Oh! Um, I'm not grounded…"

"Do you have a bicycle?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Can you meet me at the corner of Forth-ninth and Franklin at seven tonight?"

"Maybe. What do you have in mind?"

"A surprise," Patrick smiled. "A nice surprise. What time do you need to be back?"

It was clear Ashley's was curious. "It used to be nine up in Shasta County when I went round to see my friends. I haven't been out at night since we moved here. Um, my mom's not going to let me go out if she doesn't know where I'm going."

"Can't you say you're going out with me?"

Ashley looked away. "Umm." That confirmed to Patrick Ashley's mom had finally told her they had to split up.

"Okay, she knows I live at the Brodies. Would she let you visit a friend who's from the big trailer park at Stoney Ridge?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Then tell her that friend invited you over tonight. That's true, it's where I live when I'm not in care, I'm from there, you won't be lying to your mom if you say that. She can drop you at the main gate in her car at seven and pick you up again at nine. I'll have someone called 'Annie' meet you at the entrance so you can tell your mom that's who'll be waiting for you."

"Okay…"

Mrs. Bolton arrived so Patrick hurriedly whispered, "We'll be outdoors, dress warm. Jeans and a sweater, comfy shoes, a jacket," then moved swiftly to his own desk. Andy had arrived while Patrick was with Ashley but he didn't say anything as they both sat, instead he glanced nervously in Patrick's direction.

Bolton handed out everyone's report cards after registration. Patrick's classes were all 'incomplete' but some of his teachers had bothered to fill in marks for Attitude and Social Maturity. Tremblay was the most damning, Meyer and Novak surprisingly complimentary, Smith almost gushing. Ashley seemed pleased with her grades. Tran put his report card straight into his bag without bothering to look at it. Andy looked at his grades, carefully put his report card away but still cast nervous glances at Patrick. He hadn't expected Andy to be anxious about his grades and it looked like he was right, this was something personal. The noise rose in the classroom as everyone started chatting and Andy turned to Patrick.

"Hey man, can you come over for dinner on Saturday? Uh, mom and dad said I should invite you over now we're friends." Andy's trepidation grew as he said this.

"Sorry, Andy, I'm going to a wedding this weekend. How about I come back with you after school one day next week instead?"

Patrick smiled as his mind raced. It might not have anything to do with Alex. Andy's dad had made him look for new friends after he suspected his old ones of bullying. Andy would have told him about making friends with a new kid from his old school. His dad might just want to check out his new friend. It sounded weak even as he thought it.

Andy looked rather relieved. "No problem, Patrick. Uh, how about Monday?"

Andy would have told his parents about that friend's detentions and calling his lawyer, although if that was the problem surely they would have told him to invite Patrick over before last night. Perhaps Andy mentioned how his old friend Rico behaved towards Patrick yesterday in industrial arts… That seemed the weakest possibility of all. The bell rang for classes as he dismissed all the other reasons. It had to be the article from yesterday's newspaper.

On the way to French class Patrick continued, "I need to check with the Brodies but I think it'll be okay for me to come over on Monday." Patrick paused, then he added innocently, "Do your parents get the Carson Springs Tribune, Andy?"

Andy started, his expression hangdog. It was all the confirmation Patrick needed.

"Did they ask you last night what my full name is?"

"Mom asked me to tell her your surname again when I got home, then she asked why you were in care and said she was worried I jumped out of the frying pan into the fire," Andy confirmed, "but Dad said they should meet you, not jump to any conclusions about you or your family. He was really impressed about you calling your lawyer on Wednesday. He doesn't like Mr. Goole."

"Hey, at least they want to meet me, they didn't just tell you to get different friends again," Patrick voiced his thought. Ashley's mom didn't think him worth the benefit of any such niceties. Andy's dad had liked that he called Taylor into school? That gave Patrick confidence he could win him over when they met.

Tremblay carefully ignored Patrick throughout her class, though he was pleased to note she was less sarcastic and more helpful to the other kids today. He in turn stayed silent and was one of the first to leave the classroom at the end, although he waited outside and caught her as she left. The shock of seeing him almost erased her habitual expression of distaste as he approached.

"What do you want?" No social pleasantries here, but at least she was speaking English.

"Can we come to an understanding?" He held up his hall pass from Jepson, let Tremblay read it. "I'll do your homework but I'll only attend classes when there's a test. In return you tell me about the homework and tests, and you mark me as present."

To his surprise Tremblay shook her head. "I need to see you in every lesson. They check class records against the home room registration each week. I could get in trouble if they don't add up."

"Then how about this? I'll meet you out here before each class. I can give you any completed work, you can give me the next homework and I only come in if there's a test. Otherwise I go to the library and you mark me present."

Tremblay looked at him, her habitual sour expression deepening. Her desire to remove him from her class was clearly warring with her reluctance to see him rewarded in any way. Patrick decided to tip the scales.

"I was very quiet in class today," he began, his eyes not leaving hers. "That's not like me. I like to… engage with my teachers, get the most from my time in class." Tremblay froze, then nodded stiffly. Patrick pulled another note from his bag.

"Sign this."

"What is it?" Tremblay asked, looking wary.

"Insurance," Patrick replied as she read it.

'Patrick Jane is permitted to study in the library instead of attending my _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ class during academic year 1987-88. This permission is not transferable.'

Tremblay paused, considering, then finally wrote 'french' in the space provided and signed at the bottom.

"Here." Tremblay held the signed note out to him, her expression freshly-vinegared.

"Madame," Patrick nodded in acknowledgement as he took it back. He checked it carefully before stowing it away with his hall pass.

* * *

Patrick was happy to continue attending art classes. He knew he wasn't fast or talented enough to complete the work without putting in the hours and the subject provided a restful counterpoint to everything else he did. Andy had saved him a seat and had been chatting with Tran before he arrived. Tran played basketball too, apparently, at least in gym class, his size making him useful in the defense positions Andy also usually played. Tran wasn't talented at art but seemed more relaxed in a class which didn't involve reading and writing. Novak had set up some still lifes on each table so Patrick settled down to draw. He still didn't have much to say about basketball but the easy chatter between them soon moved on, winding inconsequentially around a number of topics.

Ashley was waiting for Patrick outside the lunch hall. Andy surprised Patrick by tactfully ending their discussion about movies and taking Tran with him.

"Hey Ashley," Patrick grinned at her.

"Hi Patrick." There was something on her mind. Patrick thought she didn't look unhappy enough for this to be her breaking up with him so he didn't interrupt. "Would you like to buy a sandwich and we can have lunch, um, on the bleachers on the field?"

This clearly had a significance beyond its outdoor location but Patrick couldn't read what it was.

"What happens on the bleachers at lunch time?" he asked, smiling. Ashley blushed deeply.

"Well, there's usually lunchtime sports practice on the field and, well, you're allowed to sit on the bleachers…"

Patrick knew Ashley wasn't that much of a sports fan. She was stalling.

"Okay…" he replied, taking her hand and heading over to the sandwich line. "So what else happens there?" he whispered in her ear as he stood close behind her in line, enjoying the unique little wriggle that anything involving her ears elicited in her. She turned around.

"You haven't heard about the bleachers, then?" she stalled again, smiling impishly. Getting to the front of the line interrupted their conversation for a while, then Ashley took Patrick's hand and led him outside. They headed over to the field.

"You still haven't told me why we're out here," Patrick pretended to complain.

"That's because it's a surprise. A nice surprise," she added, repeating his words back to him though she was starting to look more nervous.

They rounded the corner and Patrick finally saw what Ashley had known all along. The front rows did indeed contain kids who were watching or participating in lunchtime sports clubs but the upper tiers of the bleachers were sparsely populated by couples necking. This was the place where kids took their girlfriends to make out at lunchtime.

Patrick turned with a wide grin.

"Ashley Morgan, you minx! This is all part of a cunning plan to seduce me!" He waggled his eyebrows and squeezed her hand, watching her closely. She was blushing deeply again at his words and the nervousness hadn't left her face either. He suspected that she'd liked the romantic idea of sitting on the bleachers and kissing in the sunshine but the sight of a couple of dozen teens fumbling and groping each other had brought her back to reality with a bump.

"You getting cold feet?" When she didn't reply Patrick went on, "It's a lovely surprise, Ashley, but you don't have to do this simply because I'm your boyfriend. I'm happy just eating lunch with you."

"Don't you want to kiss me?"

Patrick put his arms around her and ghosted his lips across hers in response. "Don't have to go up there to do that," he murmured. She still seemed torn by indecision so he asked, "Shall we go sit down?" At her nod he led her up to a clear spot near the top. They sat pressed against each other as they finished their sandwiches.

There was a breeze up here, chilly for so early in November, so when Ashley shivered he slipped out of one sleeve of his jacket and put it round them both, pulling her in closer. She snuggled back against his chest and held his coat in place, creating a cocoon around them. Her hair smelled sweetly of coconut and she felt warm and soft.

"This is nice," Patrick smiled. He closed his eyes for a while, enjoying the cold air on his face, the warmth of Ashley in his arms, the sensation of being so close to her. He felt her tense slightly just before she spoke.

"Patrick?"

"Mmm?"

"Can I ask you something?" Ashley apparently found it less embarrassing to talk to him when she wasn't looking at him.

"Mmm?"

"Have you ever french kissed a girl?"

"Not my first girlfriend," he deflected, thinking how fitting it would have been if he had learned french kissing with Marie-Thérèse from France. Or maybe not, they'd both been very young and at the time he'd enjoyed the experience of being sweethearts, holding hands and exchanging chaste kisses. That's what the crewmen had dubbed them that season, 'the sweethearts of the Midway' – the women anyway. The guys had made enough ribald comments to inure Patrick forever against embarrassment over having a girlfriend. He'd only started kissing open-mouthed last summer, his most recent girlfriends.

He realized he had been basing his 'Ashley's first boyfriend' plan on his own experience of being sweethearts. Ashley was that bit older than he had been, it wasn't really surprising that she would want to go further than that with him, especially if her mom had handed her an ultimatum. Patrick wondered again what Ashley's plan was. If she intended to defy her mom where did that leave him? He didn't like the idea of sneaking around as though he wasn't good enough for her. Deceiving her mom would also make life difficult for him when the inevitable happened and they were found out.

"Have you had a lot of girlfriends?" Ashley continued, bringing his focus back to here and now. She clearly wanted the answer to be 'yes', Ashley wanted a boyfriend with some more experience than her.

"A few," he smiled.

"And you have done french kissing," she persisted.

"Yes."

"What's it like?"

"Very nice," he smiled again, though this wasn't the whole truth. The sensations were delicious; the sense of being out of control of his own body was scary; and he positively hated the way it forced him to acknowledge, if only to himself, that he might not be so very different from Alex after all.

Ashley remained silent but she was still tense, she hadn't finished but she didn't know how to continue.

"Would you like me to show you?" Patrick was murmuring in her ear again, because he could, because her half-involuntary wriggle felt exquisite when they were wrapped together like this. This place would be safe, the cool breeze would help keep him grounded, he could stay in control of himself if they did start necking up here. Patrick loved showing off and he'd learned quite a lot about kissing already. He was sure he could set a high enough standard to give Ashley's subsequent boyfriends a run for their money.

Ashley still didn't speak but she nodded. Patrick wanted to see her expression so he unwrapped his jacket and helped her into his lap. Ashley seemed unsure what to do with her hands now so he guided them around his waist before wrapping the coat around them both again, this time his hands held it closed against the chill coming from the distant Sierra Nevada.

"Mmm, this is even better," Patrick murmured and Ashley giggled quietly. She was looking nervous again but didn't look uncertain. He snuggled closer, smiled into her eyes then kissed her, only a little deeper than he had so far, briefly running the tip of his tongue along the line of her closed lips before pulling back.

"You have to say if it feels more 'eww' than 'mmm', okay?" he murmured, remembering the reaction of one of his summer girlfriends.

"Mmm," Ashley replied, smiling and relaxing into him. Patrick laughed at her joke and kissed her again: this time, to Patrick's delight, she kissed him back.

* * *

Fairey wanted Patrick to stay in her social studies class but wasn't confident enough to force the issue so reluctantly signed Patrick's 'insurance'. Portman was expecting Patrick would pass the test to move up a grade next week, but eventually Patrick persuaded her that, in the unlikely event of him failing, she would be stuck with him for the rest of the year unless she signed his 'insurance' note. By the end of the day Patrick had written permission to get out of french, social sciences and language arts. He was happy to stay in art class, industrial arts, physical education and Smith's math class. That just left science as disputed territory. It was dull but his teacher was neither hostile nor easily intimidated. Three free classes wasn't bad, he thought, and getting out of science without getting a detention would be an amusing challenge with which to enliven the classes in the meantime.

* * *

Ashley's mom pulled into the entrance to Stoney Ridge trailer park at five to seven. It was dark, the only illumination beyond the car's headlights was a street light opposite the entrance and a smaller, dimmer light on the outside of an otherwise dark office trailer. A girl was sitting on top of the big open gate, swinging her legs, but she jumped down when the car pulled up.

"Hi Ashley!" the girl called out, waving, as the car door opened.

"Annie?" Ashley called as she opened the car door. Angela waited for Ashley to step out, gave her a quick hug then stuck her head into the car. "Hello ma'am, its nice to meet Ashley's mom. Thanks for letting her come over this evening. Can she stay a little later? There's no school tomorrow! Would you mind if she stays to nine-thirty rather than nine?"

"Please, Mom, can I stay later?" Ashley also pleaded.

"Okay, Ashley, you ambushed me," her mom smiled. "You can stay later. You have to be here at the gate at precisely nine-thirty, though. Don't make me come looking for you!"

"Thanks mom, love you!" Ashley called, then the strange girl closed the door with a thump.

"Wave, then we'll head over once she's out of sight," the girl said as she herself waved at the retreating car.

"Over where?"

"Over to the surprise," said Patrick's voice. Ashley span round and he was there, leaning casually on the gate, grinning at her. He looked at the other girl and said, "Thanks for waiting here with me, Ani," then took Ashley's hand and kissed her cheek. "Hi," he said.

Hi," Ashley replied, feeling a little awkward being kissed in front of the strange girl, someone Patrick knew well, apparently.

"Why did you have to hide?" the other girl asked Patrick.

"Long story. I'll tell you later, okay? Let's go." He tugged gently on Ashley's hand and they started along the path. "Let me tell you a little bit about the surprise," Patrick began. "We don't usually do this kind of thing at this time of year. Usually it happens in April, just before the carnival season starts, but it's a special occasion tomorrow. Some people we know from the carnival got married at the courthouse yesterday and their wedding party's tomorrow. Everyone here's been setting things up for the last week or so. They want to make it special for their big day. Other people have traveled a long way to be here so there's showing off, too, I guess. There's always a bit of showing off when showbiz folk get together."

"Ha, you mean a lot of showing off when we get together," Angela chipped in.

"Showbiz?" Ashley asked, confused.

Patrick didn't answer. Instead he said, "Now close your eyes for the last twenty steps. I'll make sure you don't stumble." Patrick took her other hand, so both of hers were in his, then took a half-step towards her with a smile, his eyes shining. "You can trust me. It's a nice surprise. Close your eyes." Ashley finally complied, half-expecting Patrick to give her a kiss but instead he walked her forward, slowly, guiding her carefully as the path started climbing steeply. They stopped and Ashley felt Patrick let go of one hand and move to the side.

"Now you can open them," he whispered.

They had climbed to the top of the ridge where the ground leveled off and the driveway split into a T-junction. Trailer plots stretched out into the blackness to the left. In front of them a path had been picked out over the rough ground in white carnival lights, leading through the darkness towards a floodlit area containing some carnival rides, stalls and picnic tables. A big tent, decorated with hundreds of multi colored lights, stood at the back. Colored lights had been strung between the rides as well and formed a canopy over what looked like a dance floor in the middle. The rides themselves had their own colored bulbs, rippling and flashing in waves or more complex patterns. The overall effect should have seemed gaudy but was instead magical.

"Oh..." Ashley breathed.

"Yeah." Patrick had been watching Ashley's face during the big reveal and was now smiling, looking over the mini-carnival area with deep affection. He truly loved this, never tired of the sight of the carnival all lit up in the dark, when the frayed edges and patches and hard work were invisible and all that was left was the beautiful illusion.

After several long minutes drinking it all in Patrick tugged gently at Ashley's hand and led her down towards the carnival along the path of lights. Angela had disappeared.

"It's not for us, of course," Patrick began. "It's all for Katy Barsocky – Katy Turner as she is now – and her new husband Mick, for their party tomorrow. Her dad's chief sparks for one of the carnivals that spend winters here, that means he's the guy who sorts out power for the carnival, runs the generators. He set up all the power and the lights here to give her something special for her big day. Some of our neighbors from the carnival set up their rides or lent the tent or they're helping with the catering or the music." They had reached the edge of the floodlit area now.

"We're here because it's test night," Patrick continued. "See, they have to set everything up and run safety checks on the machines before they let people ride them. They have safety checks at every fairground, too, but it's busy and the ride owners are anxious to get the local safety certificates so they can start earning money. The first test day is much more relaxed because it happens here at Stoney Ridge, after they've been working on the machines over winter, and they let us kids be the first to use the rides after testing. I mean, mostly you're hanging round while the machines run empty or with dead weights, big sandbags in the places people sit, you can see them there on that ghost train car. But when they're sure everything's working okay they let us ride for free. It's kind of traditional for the Ruskins. During the season you can get pretty sick of rides but at the beginning, after the winter break, all the kids want to be the first to try them on test day. Test night, in this case. Do you like carnival rides?"

"I love them. I love the carnival." Ashley turned to Patrick, beaming. "This is beautiful, it's a beautiful way to do a wedding. We get to go on the rides too?"

Patrick smiled affectionately back, thinking that Ashley's childish excitement was adorable. "Probably not all of them but we should get a few free turns tonight before your mom comes back for you."

"Thank you for bringing me here, Patrick." Ashley was nearly whispering, her eyes never leaving the scene in front of her as she spoke, Patrick could see the colored lights reflected in them.

"I'm glad you like it," he murmured. They had reached the dance floor area now. He led her off to one side, where a couple of empty drinks crates had been abandoned at the edge. He upended them then disappeared for a few moments, returning with a heavy sandbag that he laid across the top.

"We'll be out of the way if we sit here. There isn't much left to do but it isn't safe to be wandering about until they've finished. The rides'll be available at different times so we need to hang around." The kids from his gang were here for test night as well though they had been given strict instructions not to crowd him and Ashley. He could see Danny and Ani on the other side of the dance floor chatting with the others.

"Hey, I know you! I heard you was in jail! Good to see you out now, boss-man!" Gimpy Bill was wandering past carrying two of the heavy sand bags over one shoulder as though they weighed nothing.

"I never went to jail, Bill," Patrick smiled back easily. "I just have to stay in town this winter. They arrested dad, not me. He'll be back in April."

"Man, I never thought anyone would catch your dad!"

"Neither did he," Patrick said wryly, which got chuckles from a few of the others who were within hearing distance.

"I'm finishing now so I'm getting a beer, you and your lady friend want one? They're free!"

"No thanks, Bill," Patrick laughed, shaking his head. "We're too young to drink beer. You eat anything today, dude?"

"Yeah, mrs boss did hot food for everyone who worked this gig." Bill gestured to the mini carnival around them with his free hand. "You guys wanna party? Got me some sweet MJ for later."

"Sorry, Bill, the lady has to be home early. Maybe next time."

"Hey, no problem boss-man! Seeya next time!" Bill set off again, casually dropping off the sandbags into a tilt-a-whirl car before he disappeared.

"Did you just call me a lady?" Ashley giggled. Patrick remained unperturbed.

"Of course you're a lady. I wouldn't kiss a little girl like I kiss you," Patrick's grin was roguish as he followed up his words with actions.

"Would that guy really have given me beer?" Ashley whispered.

"There's no harm in Bill but you can't call him responsible. He wasn't offended that we said no." Patrick didn't mention she'd been offered more than just beer, if Ashley hadn't noticed he wasn't going to point it out to her. It took a few moments for him to pinpoint the truly unusual thing about the conversation: Bill had called him 'boss-man'. He'd never done that before.

Patrick and Ashley chatted and kissed as they waited between rides, regularly interrupted by people stopping to exchange a few words with Patrick as they walked past. Patrick would roam the carnival during the season talking to everybody, he knew them all and they knew him but this was as unexpected as Gimpy Bill calling him 'boss-man'. These showmen weren't simply replying to his overtures, they were actively seeking him out, sharing the kind of inconsequential chitchat that they generally reserved for his dad, not him. He'd steeled himself against the usual crude ribaldry from the crewmen. Instead – although nothing short of being struck mute could stop a crewman swearing – they exchanged pleasantries rather than inflicting lewd abuse.

Mostly.

Mid-evening a voice floated through the darkness, "Hey pretty girl, wanna put them sweet fuckin' lips on a real man rather than a fuckin' piss ant?" It was a small mercy that Ashley's back was to Barton as he approached so she couldn't see which part of his anatomy he was indicating. She stiffened anyway and trepidation crept into her eyes.

Patrick was on his feet in an instant and instantly regretted it. Barton was over a foot taller than him and was a nasty piece of work. During the season he was the go-to guy for speed, the drug of choice for the drivers on long-haul jumps. He was on first name terms with the dealers in every town large or small from Ohio to the Pacific. This informal but key role in the workings of the carnival as well as his undoubted skill as a rigger and his unpleasant nature conspired to make him someone no one wanted to cross.

Faking a confidence he didn't feel Patrick didn't retreat. Instead he got up into Barton's face, his chest anyway, before the man could crowd him or move any closer to Ashley.

"The lady's twelve, Barton. You think Pops is gonna tolerate having a _chester_ on his crew?" Patrick spoke quietly and didn't give Barton a chance to respond. This was an ugly accusation, any response would be at least violent, at worst put him in the ER and Patrick had no intention of allowing either. When you've jumped off a cliff you don't have to worry about choosing a direction of travel.

"You hit me or touch her," Patrick continued, "you even think about it and in two minutes you won't have a home or a job and maybe the Barsockys and the Ruskin boys would make sure you didn't have your front teeth either before they finished with you. You really believe any of the Ruskins will hang onto some chester who beat up a carny kid? Beat up a _showman_? I'm the Boy Wonder, thirty-five percent of Pops' gross from the showies last season came from my act. Billy Ruskin thinks Christmas came early this year because I just signed with him." Patrick had no idea if this was true but it sounded impressive and thirty-five came across as more plausible than a rounded percentage. Now there was uncertainty in Barton's eyes. Barton was useful to the Show but the bottom line was always the bottom line.

"You think you're indispensable? Because you know a few low-lifes and can get hold of a few pills? I can pick a dealer out of a line-up in any town we never been to before with my eyes closed. And I'd know if they were selling me bad shit because I'd see it in their eyes, because I'm the _Boy Wonder_ and seeing that kind of thing is my _job_ and I'm _very good at it_." This was a pure bluff but there was real fear in Barton's eyes now, the dawning realization he was out of his depth.

"You really think you want to do anything right now other than apologize to the lady and get to wherever the hell you're going? You spoken to Pops or Billy Ruskin recently, or even the bridegroom?" Yeah, Barton had heard Mick Turner's story about the cougar, or whatever wildly exaggerated version was working its way through the carnival rumor mill by now.

Barton swallowed once, twice, eyes darting around the mini carnival. Patrick had kept his voice low, everyone had heard what Barton had called out to Ashley but no one apart from Barton had heard Patrick's little speech. What Patrick had said didn't have to go any further than the two of them. Josh and Pete Barsocky were watching from a dozen yards away, as was an inconveniently large crowd of crewmen, showies and kids waiting for turns on the rides. Patrick was much smaller than him but that was a problem, not an advantage, with so many eyes on them. He needed to take the way out that the boy was offering.

"I got no beef with you, man," Barton managed, very quietly, and Patrick's heart sang.

"Glad to hear it." Oh yeah, Patrick didn't need to fake being sincere about that. "So apologize to the lady and we can shake hands like the good buddies we are." Barton may be scum but Patrick had to give him a way to save face here or they'd have to scrape Patrick up into a bucket before they could take him to the ER.

"Uh, I was just joking, miss," Barton called. "I never meant anything by it." Not an apology so Patrick hoped like hell it at least meant Barton would no longer want to ambush him in some less public place and repay Patrick's threats and insults with his fists. Barton briefly took Patrick's outstretched hand, Patrick had him let go before Barton remembered he had wanted to break the little shit's fingers.

As Barton moved off Patrick sat down next to Ashley to hide the fact that his knees could barely hold him up, putting his arms around her waist to hide the trembling of his hands as the adrenaline backlash kicked in.

"That was really scary," Ashley managed to whisper before Josh and Pete came over.

"Hey, Paddy, you okay? We woulda stepped in but..." Pete's expression said more clearly than words that it would be disrespectful to weigh in unasked on another showman's beef. Being able to deal with such things yourself was part of the job.

"Nah, it's all good, I handled it," Patrick replied with fake nonchalance, deep in thought. He almost wished he was still a little kid in their eyes, he could have shamelessly run and hid behind them if he was still a kid. Although he'd just faced down Barton. Elation started to kick in as the trembling wore off. He'd just faced down _Barton_! A wide, triumphant grin invaded his features. "You guys all set for tomorrow?"

Patrick only half-listened to the Barsockys as they detailed the minor triumphs and setbacks of the last week, interjecting with polite surprise or suitable chagrin as their story unfolded.

Patrick had lived in Alex's shadow all his life. Even when his dad wasn't physically present, Patrick had been encouraged to believe that while he could claim any affection people showed him as his own, any respect that came his way was as his dad's son. After all Alex was the showman, the _boss_. Yet here was everybody, even Pete and Josh, undeniably showing respect to _him_.

Ani had told him that Pops and Billy Ruskin were impressed how Patrick had negotiated the change of circuit for the act. She'd said that Mick Turner wouldn't want to cross him. However it only now struck home to Patrick that he wasn't some thirteen year old carny kid any more, not to the people who mattered. Right here, right now he was a thirteen year old _showman_. The showies, the crewmen – people he respected – were treating him as an equal. As Pete drew up his own beer crate to sit with him and Ashley, as their easy conversation about the set up of the party was interrupted by turns on rides or the greetings of yet more passing adults, Patrick settled expansively into his new role. It was surprising and flattering and he couldn't get enough of it.

Too soon it was nine-fifteen and time to head back to the trailer park entrance. Patrick and Ashley held hands as they slowly walked back along the path of lights and then followed the driveway towards the streetlights around the gate.

"Ashley," Patrick began, "I like you."

"I like you too, Patrick," Ashley replied, kissing him.

"But I can't be your boyfriend any more."

Ashley opened her mouth but no words came so Patrick continued.

"Your mom told you to break up with me. She already didn't like me, thought you were too young to have a boyfriend and once she reported on my dad for her newspaper she thought it was even worse. She thinks I'm a juvenile delinquent who'll be a bad influence, or hurt you or get you into trouble."

"I'm not too young! You're – you're not a juvenile delinquent." Patrick noticed her hesitation. He was forcibly reminded that he was the closest thing to a delinquent kid Ashley had ever experienced in her sheltered life so far. "I don't want us to break up, Patrick! We could still see each other, I don't have to say anything, Mom doesn't need to know."

Patrick shook his head. After tonight his ego wouldn't tolerate that.

"If you lie to your mom about us that just proves I am a bad influence on you. I can't sneak around like this. It would be agreeing with her that I'm not good enough to be seen with you. And tonight, well, maybe Bill and Barton proved she's a little bit right anyway."

"She shouldn't be able to do this!" Ashley was looking upset but not crying. Patrick stood in front of her, looking into her eyes.

"Ashley, she's your mom. You're only twelve. Of course she can do this."

"I hate this! I hate her!"

"No, please, Ashley, sweetie, don't hate her," Patrick said mildly, brushing her hair out of her eyes and stroking her hand with his thumb. "We had a good time, didn't we? We can still be friends, can't we? We'll talk between classes and have lunch together and hang out at school. I can still show you the city library one day. You're the only person I know who likes libraries as much as I do."

This forced a laugh from Ashley in spite of the tears gathering in her eyes.

"Yes, we had a good time. I had a lovely time, Patrick, and not just tonight."

"There you are then. No regrets. At least this way it ends before I do something stupid and you start hating me."

"I'd never hate you, Patrick."

"You only say that because you haven't seen how stupid I can be."

"Oh I don't know. When you stood up to that horrible man earlier I thought that was pretty stupid. I thought he was going to knock you out and make me kiss him. It was scary." Stupid, not brave, Patrick noted. Ashley had been more scared than impressed. Above everything else that convinced him he wasn't just being selfish, this was the right thing to do.

"I'm sorry you were scared," he managed, and they shared a final, gentle kiss.

There was the sound of a car approaching.

"When your mom gets here what will you say to her?"

"I guess I'll tell her we just split up."

"Still friends?"

"Still friends."

"Will you still keep quiet? About my dad, I mean. This is bad enough. I don't think I could cope if I lost all my friends because of what your mom wrote." Patrick wasn't subtle now as he piled on the pressure. "Please?"

The car had turned into the gateway, Patrick and Ashley were picked out in its headlights, dazzled by the harsh glare.

"Definitely," Ashley said fiercely. "I won't say a word to anyone."

Patrick smiled and drew Ashley into one last affectionate hug, in spite of being watched by the driver.

"Thank you. For everything, Ashley. You're a very special girl, you know that, right?" Ashley nodded tightly but didn't speak.

He waved to her as she got into the car then waited just a few minutes for his night vision to return. He dug out the bike, flipped the lights on and started back to the Brodies house.

* * *

Patrick arrived back at Stoney Ridge a little after noon on Saturday. The first place he called was the Ruskin house but Angela and Danny were both already at the wedding party. When he got to the site he could see Angela in the control booth running the big wheel. The bride and groom weren't due to arrive until after sunset but the mini carnival had already started, the bride's parents acting as hosts to the festivities and the afternoon given over to families with kids. With his dad unavailable Patrick would be schmoozing with as many showmen as he could, glomming as much food and drink as he could get away with and generally making his presence felt. If he could stay out of the way of Barton as well the weekend would be perfect.

Patrick sought out Pete, finding him near the bumper cars, holding a beer and gazing wistfully across to the ghost train.

"Hey, Pete!" he called to his friend, surreptitiously following his gaze to the control booth of the ride opposite. It was Billy Ruskin's ride and Samantha Rose was in the booth, wearing a royal blue halter top that made her skin glow and enough chunky gold jewellery to anchor a ship. She was smiling at the kids lined up in front of the ride. Patrick looked back at Pete.

"Hiya Paddy," Pete replied distractedly. Patrick looked over to Samantha again.

"You know she's with Billy Ruskin," he began.

"Yeah, she came in with the West Coast crews last week."

"No, I mean she's Billy Ruskin's girlfriend. I saw them both last Sunday." Though she'd been keen to avoid Billy later on that evening, he thought.

"Aw, man, why are all the best girls always taken?" Pete complained, though when Patrick looked at Pete again he hadn't taken his eyes off her. He contemplated his friend for a moment. Pete was closer to Sam's age than Billy Ruskin, and about as good looking as Billy though Patrick again acknowledged he wasn't a great judge of such things. He wasn't as wealthy but his prospects were good, he was a qualified electrician who could rig and weld with the best of them. He wasn't excessively promiscuous by the admittedly lax standards of the carnival, and had confessed to Patrick one evening that while he envied the guys who could juggle two or three girls at a time he wasn't one of them: he was probably faithful. He wasn't generally insecure about himself, current situation notwithstanding, and he was a bit of a romantic. The guy was certainly capable of love and affection, he might even be able to adore the right girl.

And above everything else it seemed to Patrick that hard-headed, savvy Sam wanted a man who adored her. That was why she objected to Billy Ruskin's drinking, it wasn't the beer so much as the feeling she was being taken for granted. Sam's home life hadn't been unpleasant but she hadn't been happy there. She needed the freedom of the road in the same way some women needed to settle and put down roots, but she was a romantic too, she wanted to share it with someone who loved her.

"They seemed to be on rocky ground on Sunday, though, dude. If I could get her to come over here to meet you, how many of those favors I owe you would it cancel out?"

"All of 'em," Pete breathed, then blinked in surprise realizing what he just said.

"Deal," said Patrick before Pete could take it back, then he grinned at his friend, nodded at his beer and called back, "she doesn't like to see Billy drinking," as he walked across the lot.

"Hello Sam!" Patrick called to her when he reached her booth.

"Well if it isn't the Boy Wonder! You know what I been wondering, Paddy? What exactly you said to Barton yesterday. I never saw someone more deserving brought to heel."

"No ma'am," Patrick replied with more anxiety than he would have liked. "No-one got brought to heel. Barton and me, we just had a friendly chat and shook hands like gentlemen."

"Funny thing, Barton said something similar, and he was lying through his teeth too."

Patrick shook his head. "I'm too young and pretty to want to make an enemy of Barton."

Samantha laughed, Patrick grinned back at her then took advantage of her good humor to move things along.

"How much longer do you have on this gig?" Patrick gestured to the ride.

"Maybe an hour. Maybe longer, it depends."

Interesting. "Would that depend on the whereabouts of a certain young boss of our mutual acquaintance?"

"We split up," Samantha said flatly, all trace of her good humor gone.

Patrick didn't want to push things but felt he had little choice. "Does Billy Ruskin know that?"

"He should." Samantha's tone could freeze water.

Relief crept over Patrick. This was better than he could have hoped. "You ever been to a carny wedding before?" he asked.

"No I haven't," Samantha still wasn't smiling. "Why, Paddy? You offering to be my guide and chaperone? I notice you haven't got that little girl on your arm today."

"You can do better than me," Patrick grinned. "This party, it's Katy's mom and dad who are the hosts. Katy and Mick, they're the guests of honor, they'll get here later, but Katy's little brother Pete is around somewhere. He can give you the ten-cent tour, tell you about everything, explain what'll be happening later. It's kinda his job, a bit like an usher. I'll help you find him and you can have a dutiful escort for the duration, which should also stop anyone else asking awkward questions about you and Billy Ruskin."

Samantha was wary. "Why you doing this, Paddy?"

"Repaying a favor."

That, finally, made Samantha smile. "I get to say at the end of the day if you repaid me or not."

"Of course, ma'am, I wouldn't have it any other way." Patrick's smile widened as he hooked the 'closed' sign across the entrance to the ghost train, waited for the last car to empty then opened the door to the booth and held out his arm to Samantha. The halter top was the upper half of a dress with a very full, though short, skirt. Gold sandals completed the outfit.

"Why Miss Samantha, I declare, you're looking mighty fine today," Patrick drawled in his best Texan accent.

"Thank you, kind gentleman," she shot back, grinning.

"I can see young Pete now, let me take you over and introduce you." Samantha at last took his arm, a little awkwardly because of their difference in height, and he led her the few steps to where Pete was standing. Patrick was pleased to see that Pete had taken the hint, replacing his beer with a can of soda.

"Samantha Rose, may I introduce Pete Barsocky, Katy's little brother," Patrick grinned as they both looked up at Pete, 'little' being the last word either could reasonably use to describe him. "Pete, Samantha's never been to a carnival wedding, I'm sure she'd appreciate a gentleman escort to show her around, explain what's going on today."

"I'd be delighted. Samantha?" Pete held out his arm, playing along with a twinkle in his eye. "Could I start by introducing you to a glass of champagne?"

"Oh I expect you could, Pete. And please call me 'Sam'. Is Paddy always like this..." Patrick heard her start in a more normal voice as he slipped back over to the ghost train. Well, it was up to Pete now.

Patrick re-opened the ride then slipped into the control booth. Yeah, he could operate this ride, and he could see half a dozen reliable people he could call on should something go wrong. He settled back into the seat, smiling brightly at his first customer.


	16. Chapter 16

Linelle Williams was home before her children after school on Monday. She opened the door and gave each of them the hug she'd been saving up ever since that morning, when she'd left home before they were awake for her early shift at the supermarket. The little ones got a big both-together cuddle from her as they entered, one arm around each as she smiled and kissed them in turn.

"Come here, give me a big hug. Oh I missed you guys this morning," she babbled sincerely and Patrick noticed a hint of New Orleans in her accent. Andy was grinning down at his mom by the time she released the hug and the little kids went inside. He was taller than she was but the look of affection he gave her in that moment was the mirror image of the one on her face. Andy must have inherited his expressive features from his mom and both were so happy to see each other that Patrick felt a pang of envy, looking down the hallway for a few seconds so as not to intrude further on their shared moment. Andy's home address told Patrick that his family weren't wealthy but Andy was the product of a happy home.

"Greetings number one son," Linelle's voice was full of laughter as she hugged him, with a warmth that belied the words. This was obviously a well-worn family joke greeting. Patrick could hear the smile in Andy's voice as he replied.

"Greetings honoured parent." Still grinning he stood to one side and added, "This is my new friend Patrick Jane, Mom."

Game face on, Patrick thought as he looked up with his own bright, open smile firmly in place and his hand out to shake hers. "Hello Mrs. Williams, it's a pleasure to meet you. Thanks for inviting me over to Andy's for dinner today."

Linelle couldn't stop staring for a moment. This was not the person she'd imagined when Andrew talked about Patrick. Andrew's description, 'a white boy with blond hair and blue eyes,' coupled with the stories of his exploits in his first week at school and the article about his dad in the newspaper had her imagining a delinquent near-thug with an air of entitlement, the kind of bad boy the girls liked before they learned better. Instead she was confronted by this sweet-looking, polite little kid in a green vest who looked much younger than her son. Linelle had found that her son's previous middle school friends looked at their feet – or her cleavage – and mumbled if they spoke at all, two of the many things she had hated about them. This kid was a sharp contrast.

"Hello, Patrick, it's nice to meet you, too. Andrew's told me so much about you! Please, come in."

"Thank you, ma'am." Patrick saw her initial mild hostility evaporate in that first second and he relaxed. His appearance had surprised her, but in a good way. As he dropped his bag with the others then slipped off his shoes and jacket he fleetingly wondered what she had expected. Andy had been impressed by him asking Ashley to be his girlfriend and also when he'd called on his lawyer. She'd expected a rich kid or a criminal who was also a bit of a dog. This was the second time in three days he felt grateful for looking younger than his age.

"It sounds like my reputation's preceded me," Patrick continued, laughter in his eyes and his voice. "It's all true," his grin turned gently mischievous, "unless Andy told you any bad stuff, in which case – it's all lies." Linelle chuckled. In spite of his 'little kid' appearance, after that speech she found she could well believe that Patrick Jane asked a girl out on his second day at school. Patrick didn't seem malevolent but was clearly slightly larger than life, all confidence and easy charm and she could see why her son liked him. Andrew was almost the opposite, tall and grown-up-looking but still more of an unsure little kid inside.

For his part Patrick liked that fact that Linelle had laughed rather than looking scandalized at his talk of truth and lies. She looked to be no older than thirty, even younger than his own dad. She must have been a teen when she had Andy yet she had not only kept her baby, she'd also made a happy home for them both. She was tougher than she looked. Patrick wondered whether the youngsters were in fact Andy's half-sister and brother. There was a big age gap and less of a family resemblance between them and Andy than between each other. On the other hand, Andy called the man 'dad' not 'stepdad'. Patrick decided to see if he could satisfy his curiosity without saying anything, he wanted to make a good impression here this evening not dig skeletons out of closets.

"Did you really set your lawyer onto Principal Goole, Patrick?" Linelle asked as they entered the apartment.

"Yes ma'am," he replied. "I asked for Mr. Taylor because he said he'd look out for me if I ever got in trouble. Dad's, well, I guess you know my dad's in jail." Linelle looked briefly uncomfortable at this, as if she had been caught out. They walked through to the open space that seemed to combine living area and kitchen, where Linelle had started preparing their meal. She'd actually left out a tray of milk and cookies on the table for the kids. Patrick thought that only ever happened on TV.

"Are your parents divorced?" Linelle asked.

"I never had a mom, ma'am. She died when I was born," Patrick recited evenly. Andy's face registered surprise – they hadn't talked about it at school – and his expression said clearer than words that he didn't want to talk about it now. Linelle's expression was full of pity.

"I am sorry to hear that, Patrick," she began in a sincere tone.

"It's okay," he interjected quickly before she could go on, "you don't miss what you never had." Linelle looked as though she didn't quite believe this, though when she spoke it was to change the subject.

"Uh, how do you like fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, Patrick?" All her children started voicing their approval around the cookies in their mouths.

"Oh yes, ma'am, very much, thank you!" Patrick agreed with such an eager grin it made Linelle smile, that sounded more like the little kid he appeared to be. Teenagers, she thought, they managed to be big kids and little grown-ups at the same time.

"When y'all finish your snack you can go out to the playground while I cook. Can you look after Gloria and Troy, Drew honey? And make sure you're back in plenty of time. Dinner's at six after their dad gets home," she added for Patrick's benefit.

The local playground wasn't far. There was a basketball court, currently occupied by some older teens, a small skateboard park that was very crowded and a fenced-off area with swings, a roundabout and a couple of climbing frames for the youngsters. To one side of the skate park it looked as though someone had laid a roll of linoleum on the pavement where another bunch of kids was using it to show off their breakdancing, the music provided by a huge ghetto blaster.

Andy and Patrick stood in line with the youngsters then pushed them on the swings for a while, chatting about nothing much. Andy knew some of the other kids so he and Patrick drifted around the playground, chatting to a few boys in the breakdancing crowd before joining the basketball players. Patrick declined their friendly invitation to play – they were all much taller than him – instead introducing himself to the small group of girls who were sitting at the side of the court and definitely not at all watching the boys showing off. After a while the girls genuinely stopped paying attention to the game as Patrick – in his natural element – had them screaming with laughter in a way that made the older basketball players eye him thoughtfully.

It was Gloria Williams who stopped anything bad from developing. She appeared at the opposite side of the basketball court but didn't approach either Andy or Patrick. As soon as he spotted her Patrick excused himself from the girls.

"Hey, Gloria! You doing okay?" Patrick asked when he got close enough to talk without having to shout across the court. Gloria had been much shyer than her little brother with Patrick so far, so he wasn't surprised when she said nothing, instead shrugging and looking everywhere except at him. "You getting a bit bored with the swings?" earned him another shrug as Troy Williams ran up to join his big sister.

"Come play tag with us!" Troy demanded, grabbing Patrick's hand and tugging ineffectually to drag him away. Patrick addressed Gloria again.

"Would you like me and Andy to come over and play tag with you guys?" Yet again this resulted in a shrug from Gloria, but also a quiet 'I dunno' and a first, fleeting glance in his direction.

"Hey Andy!" Patrick called across the court. "You gonna come play tag with Gloria and Troy?" A minute later Andy had indeed joined them and they headed away from the basketball court.

The four kids started a game of tag which rapidly expanded as other youngsters wanted to join in. Patrick entertained and infuriated the little kids in turn as he didn't bother running, simply gyrating away from them at the last minute, gracefully dodging every attempt to make him 'it'. The game lasted until some players accidentally ran into each other, one ending up on the floor in tears with a grazed knee. Patrick noted how comfortable Andy was exercising his older-brother authority on his home turf, finding the crying girl's friends and making them take her home. The game of tag was over five minutes later, however, when her irate mom came into the playground to tell everyone off for playing too rough.

When they got back to Andy's apartment a man answered the door. Patrick could see straight away that this guy was Troy and Gloria's dad. There was no resemblance between him and Andy. Though less expressive in his features than Andy and his mom, George Williams hugged and smiled at all three kids with the same affection, Patrick was watching for it but couldn't see any difference in his behaviour towards Andy and the two who were definitely his. George might not be Andy's biological father but it seemed he was his dad in every other sense. Patrick yet again felt a little envious of his friend.

When the man turned to Patrick his face showed the same split second of surprise that Linelle had.

"You must be Patrick Jane. You were in Drew's class at elementary school?" To George's astonishment Patrick held his hand out to shake George's.

"Hello, Mr. Williams." Patrick's handshake was firm, he looked the man in the eye with a friendly, open smile. "Yessir, then I was put in his class again when I started at Carson Springs middle school last Monday." Slightly disconcerted George gestured for him to come inside.

"Drew said you were one of the kids from the carnival. You can do magic tricks, he said."

"Yeah, though I don't do the magic so much any more, sir. My family, we're the gypsy psychics at the carnival." Patrick watched the man's reaction closely. This guy was a skeptic and Patrick could see the moment he decided it would be rude to start arguing about the existence or otherwise of psychic powers with his son's new friend. Patrick was relieved, he wanted to make a good impression not participate in an argument. He decided not to mention the word 'psychic' again if he could help it.

"Gypsies?" George's eyes flicked to Patrick's blond hair. The guy was skeptical about that too.

"It's as good a name as any," Patrick replied smoothly. "My family travels, Mr. Williams, we have for generations. I never had a home town."

George seemed to accept this. "I don't recall seeing you at Drew's old school." His frown was one of thought, not hostility. "We'd go to sports games, pageants, performances, all kinds of things like that."

"I guess we weren't always around, carnival season starts before the end of the school year." Patrick felt confident enough now to try a little humor. "Besides, we didn't usually participate in things like that. What self-respecting carnival boy would give it away at a school show when we make four dollars a head at the county fair?" Patrick smiled his most knowing grin and George chuckled, shaking his head.

Dinner went well after that. Linelle's fried chicken was excellent. Patrick told the story of Goole And The Lawyer, then he made the story of Barty and his detention sound hilarious. Linelle had plenty of outrageous stories about supermarket customers. George Williams operated the lathes and other metalworking machines at a local engineering firm. After his story of some rich guy and the unnecessary modifications to the engine of his Porche, Patrick got talking to him about car engines in general, which naturally moved on to George asking questions about the carnival trucks and ride machinery. Patrick also gave a brief account of having to break up with Ashley, leaning heavily on the prejudice angle, which gained him sympathy from both Linelle and George. He explained that he didn't know much about his dad's crime but made no secret of the fact that his dad couldn't afford _not_ to plead guilty, and had been able to make a deal because of the elections on Thursday. By the end of that story George was denouncing all politicians and Linelle gave him an extra scoop of ice cream for dessert.

After dinner while Linelle cleaned up George brought out his guitar. Gloria, who had continued to be shy all evening, now came into her own, duetting with her dad on a couple of Blues standards and a Beatles song. She had a real talent, a sweet rich singing voice with a surprising range. Andy was embarrassed about it all but Patrick enjoyed it. Home-made music was a feature of the carnival back lot during the rare periods of downtime, there were musicians of various abilities among the crewmen and families and he loved it when they got together and did their thing.

Andy was excused more personal embarrassment. His party piece was spinning and otherwise maneuvering a basketball, which he wasn't allowed to do indoors. Troy recited a poem he'd learned in class. When George looked at Patrick, unsure whether to ask, Patrick surprised him by asking to borrow his guitar.

"Magic needs props," Patrick said in non-explanation. "Y'all will have to to invite me over again so I can pay for my _next_ supper with magic tricks," he joked as he confidently checked the tuning. Without any more ado he launched into 'House of the Rising Sun'. His voice was thin and a little reedy rather than the gravel that the song demanded, but he could carry a tune and Linelle was delighted by the mention of New Orleans in the very first line. Her accent had in fact precipitated his decision to play the song rather than show off his coin tricks. Afterwards Gloria insisted he play it again so she could sing it with him, impressing Patrick with how quickly she picked up the lyrics and how her voice lent a freshness to the song. When he handed the guitar back to her dad Patrick had to confess he wasn't really a guitarist, that song was the start and end of his repertoire. George then played 'Scarborough Fair' which Gloria sang on her own, the melody really showing off her vocal talents, her eyes never leaving Patrick as she sang it.*

* * *

Patrick switched his charm offensive to Tran on Tuesday, which is why after school Patrick was back at the arcade with the boy. He took the controls of the Star Wars game with trepidation and, as expected, lasted maybe twenty seconds before he lost the first life. Tran helped with the second life, pointing out which space ships to shoot at, but even so he didn't last much longer. He had just handed the controls over to Tran when a member of the watching crowd heckled him.

"Hey, blond kid!" Patrick turned around and was faced with an older boy, someone in high school, Patrick guessed. "You're really shit at playing Star Wars, blondie!" The guy laughed and two other older boys chortled too.

"Leave him alone." Tran was still playing the game, hadn't even turned around to say this but had called out loud enough to make himself heard above the noise in the arcade. Patrick cast a quick glance at Tran then turned back to the older boys. These kids were tall but skinny. After his dismal performance on the video game he was feeling as restless as he had the day he'd taken Jenni and Paul to steal apples and walnuts. This could be a useful opportunity to let off some steam and develop his relationship with Tran if he was willing to take a risk – and could get the timing right...He'd have to listen to the noises the machine was making as Tran played the game. There were four more lives before the game would be over, the hits made a distinctive sound so he just had to listen for those. Tran would be more likely to leave the arcade if the game was over, or nearly so.

"Is that right, Beanpole?" Patrick said to the older boy. "That's _real_ witty. You should be on Saturday Night Live with material like that."

"Huh?"

Okay, the guy wasn't sure he'd been insulted. Patrick would have to wind it down a few notches if he was going to successfully provoke the older boy. Or… in the background Tran lost his next life. Three left. Tran was a better player than that, he must have been listening in to this conversation.

"I guess there's people like Chi here, who have a real talent at this kind of thing," Patrick began, "then there's kids like me whose talents lie …elsewhere. And then there's kids like you. You don't have the game skills to make it onto the high score tables but you don't have the smarts to find anything better to do so you hang around here wasting your life watching other people achieve something." Tran lost another life. Two left. "It's okay! That's America, boys. It's a land of opportunity, not a gravy train. Some of us are going to be rich, some of us are going to be famous, and of course we'll need people like you to mow our lawns and clean our bathrooms," Patrick grinned his most insolent grin, "or maybe instead you have a bright future in the food service industry?"

"You saying I'm stupid, Blondie?" There was unmistakable aggression in the boy's voice now.

"Oh I don't believe you'll ever hear me say anything like that," Patrick shot back. Tran sniggered at these weasel words – and lost another life. He was down to his last one.

"So what are you saying?" the boy demanded.

"Nah, man, that isn't the question you should be asking." Patrick was still grinning. "You ask, 'would you like fries with that?' No, wait!" Patrick said as the kid squared off, "I heard they're hiring at Macy's in the furniture department. You can get a job as a bed tester. I can tell you have a talent for spending your working day lying around on your back." Patrick moved closer to the guy and murmured something. Tran lost his last life on the game as the guy's face turned thunderous and Patrick started running. Tran turned around just as Patrick made it through the arcade doors, barely ahead of the three kids chasing him. Swearing, Tran also headed to the doors in time to see Patrick racing around the corner of the block and down an alley, the boys in hot pursuit. Tran jogged to the corner and there was Patrick, caught in a kind of pincer movement near some dumpsters, the three older boys closing in from every side.

"Gonna teach you some manners, Blondie! When I'm finished with ya, you'll regret you ever said _anything_ about my mom, you little punk!" The kid Patrick had insulted sounded menacing, looked ready for a fight. Tran didn't hesitate. As the first kid shoved Patrick against the dumpster then winded him with a gut punch, Tran rushed the nearest boy, bowling him down from behind. Patrick had ended up on the floor as Tran appeared behind the kid who had punched him, grabbed his fist and twisted the kid's arm up his back. The kid yelled in pain and surprise, then Tran turned him around and shoved him towards the open end of the alley.

"Scram," Tran yelled. The kid he had knocked down was already doing just that and the other two took off as well. Tran watched them go before turning to Patrick.

"What the hell were you doing, man?" Tran asked, panting. Patrick wheezed as he lay on the floor for a few long moments, unable to speak but holding up his hands as if to say he hadn't done anything, honest. Shaking his head, Tran reached down and pulled Patrick to his feet.

"Guy – whew – couldn't – take – joke," Patrick gasped out, trying to laugh.

"You are one crazy-ass dude, you know that?" Tran was shaking his head, though he couldn't help grinning. Patrick was shaking with adrenaline and suppressed laughter. "You carry on like that, you're gonna wind up dead."

"That kid couldn't punch his way out of a paper bag," Patrick retorted with undisguised contempt.

"Yeah, but you aren't as tough as a paper bag, dude!"

Patrick laughed out loud at this, then groaned as his laughter brought the fresh bruises around his midriff to his urgent attention.

Ten minutes later Tran and Patrick were heading up the steps to the library.

"Those guys might hang around at the bus station, they're not gonna come in here looking for trouble," Patrick explained.

Patrick returned a few books and took the opportunity to sign up Tran for a borrower's card. A few days earlier he had found what he considered the perfect first book for Tran. He carefully maneuvered the boy towards the right shelf on the pretext of looking for some movie book for himself, then subtly tricked Tran into picking out the book he had previously found. There were stills from the first Star Wars film on one side of each double-page spread, with a quote from the script on the page opposite and Tran was flicking through the book before he realized what he was doing. It wasn't as difficult as he had expected to convince Tran to borrow the book. He picked up another at random to borrow for himself, and they both checked them out at the front desk.

The bus station was thankfully free of guys wanting to beat up Patrick, so they passed the time flicking through Tran's book and quoting the lines from the movie that went with each still. Patrick's English accent for 'These aren't the droids you're looking for' and 'He's more machine now than man, twisted and evil' was good, but Tran was a champion at the noises. His 'R2-D2' was good, his 'light sabre' noise was better and his 'Chewbacca' knocked Patrick's attempt into a cocked hat. They each took turns at trying to perfect the 'Darth Vader' breathing noise for a while until Patrick's sudden coughing fit made them both dissolve into laughter.

* * *

Patrick had a bulky letter from Taylor's office waiting for him when he got back from the library. It contained Alex's new prison details and included a booklet from the state pen that was full of rules for friends and relatives of prisoners regarding letters, phone calls and visits. There was also a note from Taylor himself.

_Dear Paddy,_

_I just got Alex's details for Volano state penitentiary so here they are (enclosed). The rules for communicating with prisoners are also enclosed. Be warned, Paddy, these rules are strictly enforced. If you don't follow them your letters will be returned or destroyed; they are quite prepared to confiscate items of contraband or turn visitors away at the prison gates. Alex can receive magazines but on subscription only, not forwarded from you._

Patrick was surprised and pleased about that. He quickly cast an eye over the booklet containing the rules. He smiled when he saw that while it would be fine to arrange for Alex to be sent his 'Amusement Business' and 'Showtime' every month, he had better not do the same with his dad's 'Hustler'.

Taylor's note continued:

_Don't worry about paying me, I already sent Alex my initial invoice and with his written permission can deduct my fee from your cash which is currently in my safe. I will be doing more work on his behalf between now and the end of his sentence so there will be more invoices. I know you were planning some expenditure for your act so I suggest that you budget a total of $3000 for my fees and $500 for my expenses._

Nearly half of what was left at the end of last season. It couldn't be helped but it was a blow. Of course, Patrick reflected, there wouldn't be any living expenses apart from putting money in Alex's commissary account. It might not be so bad as it seemed.

_I am looking forward to seeing you on Thursday, when I will no doubt be as surprised at your card playing prowess as I have been by your other abilities._

_Yours, in anticipation,_

Taylor's signature was a flamboyant scribble.

That made Patrick smile. He wasn't bad at poker. He knew the probabilities, being able to read people helped as did being able to cheat when dealing. He needed to play against people who were better than him if he was going to improve his actual game play. His reading of Taylor suggested the man was a _very_ good player. Patrick wanted to hear more about his life story too, right from the start he'd been intrigued at the idea of a carny (what had Taylor done at the carnival back in the day?) becoming a successful lawyer.

"Am I allowed to go to Stoney Ridge this evening, Mrs. Brodie?" Patrick asked aloud. "I have a little business to attend to."

Liss snorted derisively. She had been sharing the kitchen table with him, doing homework as he read his letter. Patrick shot her a curious glance. He hadn't seen much of her today – she had been chatting with Ashley and Julia at lunchtime on a table that had no free spaces, Patrick had sat with Andy and Tran instead – and now this. He wasn't sure what was going on with her.

"Is your homework finished, Patrick?" Sally Brodie interrupted his thoughts. "Do you need to do anything for your tests tomorrow in math and English?"

"I finished all my homework. I can't think of anything I can do for the tests tomorrow. I guess I either pass and move up a grade or fail and stay where I am." Patrick now had every intention of failing both tests, Portman had agreed for him to skip language arts class for the library and he was getting special tuition from Smith in math class, covering a lot of probability right now. Last lesson he'd brought in an old score card and they'd spent a little time looking at razzle dazzle, a very old, very corrupt carnival game now banned in every state. By the end of the class Patrick had been enormously impressed by whoever invented it, some mathematically-minded showman whose name was lost in the mists of time. Smith had told him she'd be happy to take him through some game theory once his algebra was up to the challenge.

"Then I guess it's fine, Patrick, you can go there once the washing up's finished. Back by ten."

"Of course, ma'am." Patrick headed up to his room. He wanted to start a letter to his dad straight away if he was going to be out for the evening, so he could post it on the way to school in the morning.

Patrick was in his room, lying on the bed and halfway through preparing his letter – Zack the Library Guy's technique for essays was proving useful again – when there was a knock on the door, followed immediately by Liss opening it and entering.

"Come on in, Liss" Patrick said mildly once she'd shut the door behind her. She stalked across the room and claimed the space on the end of his bed, leaning her back against the wall, stretching out her legs and crossing her arms. Patrick sat up a bit more against the headboard.

"Is it always this tidy?" she asked, looking around the spartan room.

"I never thought about it," Patrick replied with a serene smile. "I guess so."

"Where's your stuff?"

"In the drawers and the closet," Patrick shrugged.

"No, I mean your stuff, not your clothes, the things you own that are yours."

"In my pockets," Patrick replied curiously, puzzled by her question.

"But what about big stuff, photos, ornaments, stuff like that. You don't even have a Walkman or, I don't know, trading cards or anything!"

"I don't have much stuff like that, Liss. The act has some assets, Dad has some personal things, they're all in storage up at Stoney Ridge."

"You turned into a monk now? Not interested in material things?"

"I don't want trading cards or trash like that. I want… I was in this big fancy department store one time, Kansas City I think, there was a weird-looking stereo system there, European not Japanese, it cost four _thousand_ dollars and had the best sound reproduction I ever heard. I saw some tea cups and saucers in an antique store in Chicago, they were so thin if you held them up you could see light shining through them and they were beautiful, hand painted and gilded. The guy said they were two hundred years old and cost three hundred dollars each. In the Gold Rush museum there's a big leather-topped walnut desk that's worth thirty grand, the mine owner there got it because he could, because he owned a goddamn _gold mine_." Patrick grinned. "I wouldn't mind having a desk job if it meant I worked at a desk like that every day. I saw this beautiful Italian sports car one time when we were on the road–"

"Jeez, okay, I get it!" Liss had been impatient while he was talking and was now emphasizing her irritation with hand gestures. "It's the very best or nothing for the great Patrick Jane. Is that why you broke up with Ashley? Wasn't she good enough for you?" She had turned to face him, now, eyes narrowed, sitting up cross-legged with her arms crossed too, leaning towards him as she spoke.

"What? I didn't break up with her!"

"Then why's she the one who's upset and you're just fine?"

"You have no idea how I feel about it, Liss," Patrick began in a low, icy tone. "Her mom never met me but she wrote in the newspaper about my dad being sent to jail and based on that she decided I wasn't good enough for Ashley. It was Ashley's mom who broke us up." Liss's eyes were wide now. "Maybe I seem fine to you because it isn't the first time this happened to me. Parents can be _real_ prejudiced against gypsy boys. Don't you go believing I would _ever_ feel fine about being on the receiving end of that." It was mostly true, he thought. He hadn't been in love with Ashley – whatever that meant – but it had been huge fun being Ashley's first boyfriend. Although he'd anticipated her mom's reaction, being judged like that _sucked_. It hadn't happened often but it really wasn't the first time some parent had decided he was unworthy of their precious little girl without ever meeting him in person.

Patrick enjoyed styling himself a 'gypsy boy'. His dad hated the word, said he'd had it yelled at him as an insult too many times, and anyway they were Irish showmen, not Romani gypsies. On the rare occasions Lily spoke of his mom's family she had scathingly referred to them as 'no-good gypsy horse-thieves' though with a maiden name of O'Brien his mom had definitely been of Irish extraction too. The insults that came Patrick's way had always been more along the lines of 'trailer trash' and 'filthy carny' rather than 'gypsy' so Patrick had grown up liking the word. He felt that calling himself a 'gypsy psychic' made him sound exotic, it added romance and mystique to the decidedly unromantic, unmysterious reality of life on the road.

Liss was now sitting with her mouth slightly open, staring at him silently and Patrick realized with dismay that he was once again feeling the intimacy of the situation. His dad's words, 'temptation's more tempting if it's there all the time' sprang to his mind, this time as much a possible remedy as a warning. Even his dad – especially his dad, now he thought about it – could work a mark who was a pretty woman without reacting to her like this. Was it because the money was at the forefront of his dad's mind, not the woman? Patrick concentrated on how outraged he felt about being judged unworthy and his physical reaction to Liss's presence started to subside.

"I'm – I'm sorry, Patrick," Liss finally managed. She looked it too, her righteous anger all gone and embarrassment coloring her cheeks. That wasn't helping.

"That's okay, Liss. It's a sisters job–" Sister! Sister! He shouted inside his head as he spoke, why did blushing make girls look even prettier? – "to tell her brother if she thinks he's been a jerk."

Why was this happening to him with Liss? He truly didn't find her attractive and he certainly hadn't been this out of control of his own body when he was with Ashley. But then he'd been very much the one in charge with Ashley whereas Liss kept blindsiding him when he hadn't had time to plan for her close proximity. And bedrooms were, well, for some reason bedrooms in a house felt more intimate to Patrick than anywhere else ever had, even the RV. That was what his dad meant, he realized. A girl his age living in the same house would be an easy option, regardless of how attractive he found her. That thought, finally, had the desired effect. His dad always chose the easy option where women were concerned and Patrick knew with every fiber of his being that he didn't want to be like Alex, the idea revolted him. Liss started talking.

"No, it's not okay, Patrick, I hate it when people judge me because they think they know…" Her voice faded into a gesture that could have meant anything.

Patrick shuffled along his bed and gave Liss a brief chaste hug around her shoulders. Yup, not like Alex. He sat next to her now, relaxed, back to the wall and legs stretched in front of him across the bed, just like Liss.

"Do you really think I believe I'm better than everyone else?" Patrick wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended by this.

"Yeah, well, you act like you got everything sussed. Your life is just how you like it, you get your way all the time – you got a later curfew from Sally and William, you called your lawyer into school to get you out of trouble, I still can't believe you did that. You got Sally to let us go trick-or-treating. It's like you breeze through life and get everyone to rewrite the rules in your favor. That's why I thought it was you who wanted to break up with Ashley."

"If I really got my way all the time I wouldn't be here," Patrick said quietly.

That quietened Liss, too. "Yeah, me either," she agreed in a small voice. They sat in silence for a moment.

"Ashley didn't say I broke up with her, did she?"

"She didn't say _anything_. She was just really sad, yesterday and today. And you didn't seem to be anything!" Liss added in frustration.

"Oh come on, Liss. You never put on a face for the outside world?"

"I guess I just never thought _you_ did. You're always so sure of yourself, it's like you're never out of your depth, nothing embarrasses you. I didn't think you..." She gestured vaguely again.

"Yeah, well." This earned him an exasperated look from Liss. Patrick bumped his shoulder against hers. "Y'know, brothers are allowed to tell their sisters off when they've been jerks, too," he grinned. "Just sayin'."

"When hell freezes over, Trick," Liss replied, though she was smiling when she said it.

"Trick. That's funny. Y'know, as nicknames go I quite like that," Patrick grinned. Liss rolled her eyes.

"Well of course you do."

* * *

The math test was easy to fail. The answers were multi-choice, entered onto a special sheet by marking one of the letters A-E for each question. Patrick ensured he would flunk the test by entering the correct answers for each question – but not in the correct order.

The language arts written test was too easy. Patrick was surprised that seventh-graders weren't asked more advanced questions. He read the test through, then settled back and really went to town. If it was possible to misunderstand something in the reading exercise, he did. If a question asked for an example of one type of word he would give it's opposite. For the rest he carefully identified what was required then wrote something utterly tangential to what the question asked. Finally while doing the creative writing piece he amused himself by cramming as many spelling mistakes and grammatical errors into each sentence as he could, while also making his story as difficult as possible to follow, starting in the middle, jumping around, repeating himself and concluding with a paragraph containing no fewer than four non-sequiturs and a deus ex machina of gargantuan proportions. At the end he realized his writing was too neat, he would get some marks for penmanship though for very little else.

* * *

Alex received Patrick's letter on Wednesday.

_Dear Dad,_

_I hope my letter finds you well, as I am also. I enclose a money order for your prison commissary account, let me know if it is enough, in future I'll bring cash when I visit so we don't need to pay commission. Also enclosed is a rough budget for our spending this year, it is tight so let me know what you think._

Alex snorted at the money order, disgruntled at the idea of his son giving him pocket money, for chrissakes. However the alternative – having Taylor sort out the money – would result in even more fees and they were already giving the lawyer more than they could afford. Paddy allocating money to him like this made sense but Alex didn't have to like it. The rest of the numbers... well, it looked as though the boy hadn't done too badly although he did want more money in his commissary account every month. Fifteen a week was too low even though there wasn't any spare money in Paddy's budget. The kid would just have to find another few hundred from somewhere.

_Remember that gig we did in Saint Paul with the surprising dressing rooms? Foster care has been unexpectedly similar recently. I remembered what you said about temptation and 'forewarned is forearmed' as the proverb says. I can tell you all the details when I visit._

Alex did remember, the surprise being that the dressing rooms didn't exist. Instead the theater had a big communal area backstage which they shared with all the other acts, including the resident dancing girls. The boy had seemed to take the girls' briefly-glimpsed nudity in his stride at the time. The dancers must have made more of an impression on Paddy than he'd thought. They had impressed the hell out of Alex... He wondered how literal Paddy was being about his foster home. He'd mentioned there was some girl there, hadn't he? It seemed unlikely she would wander about as bare as the Majestic Theater dancers. Though Paddy had claimed he wasn't tempted the last time Alex saw him, the boy was only human. Those teenage hormones would be kicking in even if he still looked like a little kid. For the millionth time Alex wished he could be a fly on the wall, able to at least keep an eye on the boy even if he couldn't intervene.

_Visiting day for minors this month is the Saturday before Thanksgiving, in December it is the one before Christmas. Please could you add as many people as possible to your visitor list, names from the lot as well as the Brodies. I need an adult to bring me or I won't be allowed to see you and those are busy weekends for a lot of people._

That made sense though Alex was very uneasy about signing up a lot of his fellow carnies as visitors, not many would thank him for doing it. He'd have to think carefully about that.

_I'm starting to make friends at school, I had a girlfriend for a few days but not any more, we had to break up. _

Oh really? Well that was something else he'd have to ask about when the boy visited.

_Freddy Snaps was doing the photographs for Katy and Mick on Saturday, we borrowed his Polaroid for a while so I enclose a few pictures. The new girl Pete Barsocky seems so fond of is Sam Rose, from Billy Ruskin's circuit._

There was Paddy looking relaxed and happy sitting with Pete and someone he assumed was Sam, a pretty black girl who also seemed fond of Pete too, at least from the look she was giving him in the photo; Paddy grinning from inside a Tilt-A-Whirl car, an arm around each of the Ruskin kids; one of Paddy on his own sitting at a table looking... Dammit, looking too much like his mom. His mind might be all Alex Jane but his face was pure Maura, even more so as he got older. He looked more like her than Alex remembered her brothers ever did. Alex put that photo back into the envelope but stuck the others on the wall by his bunk.

_I was thinking about the pursuit of excellence the other day_

What the hell? He knew Patrick would go off at a tangent sometimes. Lily had brought the boy up to think sideways in the same way she did. A letter was a good way to get inside the boy's head, he supposed, so long as he made some kind of sense. Okay, let's see where he's going with the pursuit of excellence.

_I was thinking about the pursuit of excellence the other day because I met someone who claimed he always worked to the best of his ability. I still think that most people try to make their lives as easy as they can by doing the least they can get away with, even though experience would surely teach them that can be counterproductive. A librarian I met in Wichita told me Confucius said 'choose a job you love and you will never have to work a day in your life'. I like the act and everything we do, but I think we can do better. I know you said no changes for next season but can we talk about that when I visit? I can't help thinking that one or two very small changes would have me loving everything we do, which would surely make our work much more lucrative._

_Love,_

_Paddy_

Shit! Alex hadn't seen that coming. The boy wanted to change the act or... _Everything we do_. Damn, Paddy was still bitching about that 'magic rock' con they ran in the summer. More lucrative my ass! You didn't get more lucrative than ten grand! Which they had very nearly lost because the boy got cold feet! _He_ chose the marks and the cons they ran on them, not Paddy! The kid didn't have a clue.

Alex swallowed. Probably didn't. He had that real quick way about him, half the time Alex didn't have to teach him because he'd already picked up what he needed to know. Alex had always thought of that as one of Paddy's better traits, there was nothing worse than having to go over and over something because someone didn't understand the simplest things. Was that going to bite him on the ass now?

Thirteen... Paddy was growing up, no doubt about it, and the boy was smart. Probably – Alex thought uncomfortably – smarter than he was himself. Alex remembered how much he had hated being under his own dad's thumb as a teenager. This was completely different, though, he thought. Alex didn't beat Paddy into submission, he _persuaded_. He'd never raised his hand to that boy his whole life and god knows there's plenty of fathers who would, the kid had a smart mouth. He just wished the boy would get himself laid. The pursuit of girls should be distracting him from the pursuit of fucking excellence, whatever that might mean – apart from screwing with Alex's cozy little world. Prison was bad enough, he didn't need the boy wanting to make changes when he got out. Though maybe girls were starting to distract Paddy, Alex thought, reading again the passage about the theater in Saint Paul.

This was going to take some careful handling as well. Paddy wasn't going to wait for him to get out of prison before he started growing up. Thirteen… Alex only had five years left of that particular gravy train before the boy was technically an adult. Maybe he could stretch it to eight if he did make some small changes to accommodate the boy. Eighteen might be an adult but the boy would find it hard to get work on his own until he was old enough to work in venues with an alcohol license. Yeah, it definitely needed some careful thought.

* * *

_Dear Paddy,_

_Thanks for the photos. I'm already looking forward to your visit, we have plenty to talk about. Don't make any big spending decisions before we have a chance to meet up. There really is no need to rush into anything, everything is always cheaper after Christmas._

_Love,_

_Dad_

There. Maybe if he didn't encourage it the boy would forget about pursuing excellence and he wouldn't really have to make any changes after all. Alex couldn't see anything wrong with doing the least he could get away with. It did make his life easier. The boy had no idea.

* * *

These are the poem and the songs I imagined when I wrote this:

'Mother Doesn't Want A Dog', Judith Viorst, 1981

'Walkin' Blues', Robert Johnson, 1936

'Kansas City', Lieber & Stoller, 1952

'Octopus's Garden', Richard Starkey (The Beatles), 1969

'House of the Rising Sun', Traditional, arranged by Alan Price (The Animals), 1964

'Scarborough Fair', Traditional, arranged by Paul Simon, 1966


	17. Chapter 17

Hello Paddy!" Taylor answered the door in slacks and an open-necked polo shirt rather than his trademark three-piece suit. "Come in, come in. You can hang your jacket on the hook there." Patrick grinned at him.

"Hello, Mr. Taylor! I hope you don't mind, Mr. Brodie wanted to chaperone me this evening." William stepped around Patrick, smiled a little sheepishly and shook Taylor's outstretched hand.

"Hello, Mr. Taylor."

"Hello again, Mr. Brodie. You're staying? Well, you're very welcome too. Do you play poker, sir?"

"Please, call me Will."

"In that case I'm Simon," Taylor smiled. "Do you play, Will?"

Uh, no, Simon, I don't play cards," Brodie replied as he shuffled through the door, still feeling a little uncomfortable at having turned up unannounced.

"Then perhaps I can ask you to get the drinks. Paddy, I guess you'll have tea?"

"Yes please, sir."

"And whatever you want, Will. There's soda and beer in the refrigerator if you'd prefer it. As I don't have to drive Patrick back this evening I think I'll have a drink."

"Shall I get you a beer?" Brodie asked.

"No, thank you," Taylor replied, "after today I feel like something a little stronger. Everything's all ready for us through there," he added, opening a doorway at the end of the hall and ushering his guests inside. "I thought we'd play in the kitchen this evening, Paddy," Taylor explained, eyes twinkling. "There's a bathroom over there by the back door, everything else we need is right here in the kitchen. Excuse me," He added as he disappeared into another room.

Patrick laughed. "I can understand why we're doing that, sir," he called after Taylor, "though I'll see the rest of your house soon enough."

"Not tonight," Taylor's voice floated through to the kitchen.

"What was that about the rest of the house, Patrick?" Brodie asked as they surveyed the kitchen.

"Mr. Taylor worked at the carnival back in the day, sir. I guess he knows enough about how psychic acts works to want to keep his personal life personal, at least tonight."

Taylor used to work at the carnival? Brodie felt maybe that could explain the easy rapport between him and the boy, in spite of all the obvious differences. Taylor would be familiar with those aspects of Patrick's background that baffled Brodie. Why would Taylor knowing about Patrick's act mean they were banished to the kitchen this evening?

Taylor returned carrying a cut glass tumbler with something the color of amber sloshing around in the bottom. Brodie wanted to ask Taylor how psychic acts worked but felt he should start making some tea. He turned to the cupboards.

"Cups are over the sink, tea's in the next cupboard to the right," Taylor explained to Brodie as he sat at the table opposite Patrick.

"Mr. Brodie would like to know how psychic acts work," Patrick grinned at Taylor. This was a good opportunity for him to check what Taylor knew too.

"Well I know you're good at cold reading, Paddy, I've been on the receiving end of that. I guess you have, too, Will? Where Paddy seems to be reading your mind?"

"Yes I have!" Brodie realized indignantly that was exactly what Patrick had just done yet again.

"That's called cold reading. He's not really psychic, or maybe that's all being psychic really is. I never met a fortune-teller who couldn't do it, though of course some are better than others. Paddy's watching the reactions you can't help making to what he's saying, such as how you breathe, your fleeting facial expressions and body language.

"And the rest," Patrick nodded.

"Then he uses what he sees and what he already knows about you to refine what he says or shape the questions he asks next." Taylor could see Brodie trying not to grimace as he took this in. "There's no point deliberately changing your expression, Will," he said kindly. "The reactions you make are unconscious and they show up just as much when you're trying to hide them. That's what they mean when they say someone had a good poker face, their reactions are much weaker than the average person."

"You looked curious and I didn't think it was about Mr. Taylor's house or where he keeps his teabags, sir," Patrick explained.

Brodie gave up trying not to give anything away. Grinning weakly, he asked, "So you do this 'cold reading' for your carnival act, Patrick?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty good at cold reading, been doing it a long time. I'm fast, too." Patrick didn't seem to be boasting, he stated it as if he were describing someone else rather than himself.

"How long is that, Paddy?" Taylor asked.

"I don't know exactly, sir. No, really," Patrick added as Taylor looked skeptical. "I have a pretty good memory and I can remember a long way back." Patrick seemed perfectly comfortable talking about himself here with Taylor, Brodie noticed. "The earliest things I can recall are just random small details. We got our current RV when I was two. I remember the previous one had three steps up to the door." Patrick had closed his eyes and was moving his hands oddly as he said this. Brodie suddenly realised what Patrick was doing. As he recalled the memory of the three steps he was miming the action of a very small child climbing up three steps using his hands as well as his feet, something Patrick must have done many times every day when he was an infant. Brodie could remember almost nothing of his elementary school, let alone anything before then. Seeing Patrick recall his early infancy like this made the hairs stand up on the back of Brodie's neck.

Patrick opened his eyes and continued talking. "I remember the first time I read anything on my own – without an adult, I mean. It was the funny page of a newspaper, Peanuts and Lil' Abner. That was around my third birthday, early Fall anyway, we were at the county fair just outside Fairmont in Minnesota. I can remember picking out the single moms from the married ones for dad at play groups in the towns we visited but I don't remember being taught how to do that."

Taylor and Brodie shared a look which Patrick chose to ignore. He'd criticize his dad for many things but not for teaching him this. He loved being able to read people, loved that he could still get better at it – as the last couple of weeks had proven in spades.

"I can just about remember the first time I read words on a page on my own," Patrick clarified. "I can't remember my first cold reading. I can only remember being able to do it. I must have been pretty young when I started."

Pretty young was an understatement, Taylor thought, if the boy was already cold-reading at mom and toddler groups. The boy really had been training for the act his whole life. No wonder he felt school couldn't compete.

"I expect you're good at hot reading too?" Taylor asked. Patrick nodded and Taylor turned to Brodie, explaining, "It's where he learns about a person from their belongings, not their reactions to what he's saying. Everyone knows that someone's home and possessions can say a lot about them. Psychics will use that to their advantage, if they can."

"Yeah." This time Patrick didn't elaborate. Mostly for the act he got hot reads from pickpocketing rather than visiting houses and he wasn't going to admit that to anyone, especially not in front of Brodie. The stuff always got put back before anyone was the wiser. "We're in here tonight because there's not so much personal stuff in a kitchen. Thank you, Mr. Brodie," Patrick added incongruously as Brodie placed a cup of tea in front of him.

Brodie found himself wondering how much Patrick had discovered about him and his family since the boy moved in. It would seem Patrick knew a great deal more about them than Brodie had ever learned about Patrick, the boy had told him more about his childhood in the last ten minutes than he had in the last ten days. Well, not him: he'd been answering Taylor's questions. Brodie sat down further along the table with his own cup of tea.

Patrick continued, "Kitchens say more about your likes and dislikes than your personal history, though that can still be useful. A lot of people stick stuff on the refrigerator with magnets, but not you, Mr. Taylor."

"Not me," Taylor confirmed. "It sounds as though your memory was pretty good before you started training it, Paddy?"

"I do seem to remember more about when I was very young than other people," Patrick said thoughtfully. "I still forget things, sometimes. There was a lot to learn when we became a double-act so dad started by teaching me the techniques he uses to remember things."

What techniques are those?"

"Chunking for anything long, acronyms for anything short enough, Major for numerical, exaggerated imagery, rhymes and narratives for the act." Brodie had heard of only one of these techniques.

"You don't use a memory palace?" Taylor asked as he sipped his drink.

"Is that the method of loci? I heard about it but Dad doesn't use it so I never did. We don't live in any one place long enough. We never park up in the same place twice and even the Midway set up is different at each stop, it depends… well, you know how many things can influence the layout man. Even up at Stoney Ridge you don't get the same pitch two years in a row. I know the Carson Springs City Library pretty well but that's just one building…"

"The library's a big building," Taylor said thoughtfully. "It could work just fine for you but It doesn't have to be a real place. A memory palace is simply a way to use the familiar to organize the new things you want to remember. You can build a memory palace in your mind using pictures, doing it like that was very popular in the Renaissance. There was a book a little while ago, 'The Art of Memory' by Yates, it's very good – thorough but accessible. I have a copy somewhere I can lend you, if you like."

"I can borrow it from the library, sir, I go nearly every day. I'd guess you're like me, though, Mr. Taylor. You learned memory from a person, not from a book. What are we playing?"

"_Five card draw, one eyed jacks are wild, as there's only two of us could you strip the pack a little, Paddy?_" Taylor's tone had changed as he talked about poker. He handed over a pack of cards and Patrick started riffling through it. Taylor's tone changed back to conversational now as he continued, "Yes you're right, Paddy, I did learn it from a person, he had a 'memory man' act. I beat him at poker back when I first joined Frobisher's Five Star American Carnival. Mister Marvel the Memory Man had a single-o on the back end. He'd been with the show a while, had a bit of a reputation as a card player, thought he was unbeatable and so did a lot of the showmen. I was happy to go along with it, right up to the 'unbeatable' part," Taylor added, the memory of his old triumph bringing the ghost of a smile to his lips. "He hadn't been expecting a kid like me to prove him wrong."

"_Old school__,_" Patrick, following Taylor's lead, was using a slight change of tone to differentiate between the poker talk and their other conversation. He was flattered by the idea that Taylor was making no allowances for him, that he might even be trying to give himself an advantage over Patrick – stud was more popular than draw poker these days. However Patrick had been playing poker and learning his way around its many variants for years. The basic rules for scoring were easy enough to grasp and the sheer quantity of variations, the richness of the language surrounding the game and the way he could gain his dad's attention when he took an interest in poker had combined to make it uniquely appealing to Patrick. Poker had become his childhood obsession in the same way that locks had for Danny or dinosaurs had for half of his fourth grade class after a school trip to a museum. In his short life he had already played a_ lot_ of poker.

"_Deuces and treys?_ Marvel couldn't pay up so you made a deal with him, he taught you his memory techniques in payment for his card debt. Did you fill in the gaps later from books? _You have two jokers in this pack, Mr. Taylor, shall I strip them out or are they wild too?_"

Taylor nodded. "_Sure, l__ets make the jokers wild too, why not? And strip ace to sevens, it'll make it more interesting._" Patrick carried on stripping out more low-value cards. Ace to sevens would play around a little with the probabilities of the winning hands. Still, this was supposed to be a learning experience. "It was either that or lose his means of earning a living," Taylor nodded. "There weren't any gaps to be filled, the guy wasn't an amateur," Taylor continued. "I acquired the books on memory much later, more out of general interest in the subject.

"Simon, what's a memory man act?" Brodie interrupted.

"The audience asks him any question and he knows the answer," Taylor replied. "People would ask things like 'which horse won the 1932 Kentucky Derby' or 'how much did it cost to build the Hoover dam'. Marvel's speciality was asking everyone's name at the entrance to his show, then offering to refund the entrance fee if he couldn't remember it later. He never had to pay up."

"You were a kid when you joined the carnival?" Patrick asked. "_Shall we switch flush and full house in the rankings, sir?_" The probabilities would suggest the swap with a stripped deck but not everyone bothered, which gave an advantage to players who knew about the changed odds.

"_I wondered if you knew the probabilities changed with a stripped deck,_" Taylor grinned. "_I won a lot of games with that little advantage. Yeah, lets move the flush up the rankings, so it goes straight, full house, flush, four of a kind. _I was twenty-two, son, I joined the carnival shortly after I was demobilized," Taylor continued, a natural raconteur. Brodie looked up when he said this but didn't interrupt this time. "When I left the army I found I couldn't stay in one place very long, certainly not in Cincinatti with my father. _We'll play for matchsticks. We both start with one book of each color." _Taylor pushed three books of matches over towards Patrick's side of the table, keeping three identical books on his side. "I'd find a job and a place to live then a few weeks later I'd be crawling out of my skin. Looking back I guess I had shell shock or delayed combat neurosis or whatever the hell they call it these days. All I knew was that I couldn't stand being in one place too long. I moved on a few times, each job worse than the last as I quit more and more jobs without working my notice. I thought I'd hit rock bottom with the carnival job but at least I could move around while sleeping inside each night and earning enough to eat every day. _Blue match heads are worth one, pink two and brown five._" Patrick finished checking through the remaining cards, making sure he had removed everything he should. He placed the two piles of cards in front of himself and eyed the matchbooks uncertainly. Taylor was still speaking.

"I beat Marvel at the end of my first week as an act in Millican's Ten-In-One –"

"You were a freak act?" Patrick interrupted, astonished.

"It's where I started," Taylor corrected. "I was a fakir from the mysterious island of Sri Lanka or some such nonsense. Bed of nails, that kind of thing. Only one step up from being the geek. _The matchbooks say average contents, you can tear them out and count them If you like but I'm not going to bother. We both start with one book of each color_. I wasn't the only new guy that year but I was the youngest. All the other acts decided I must be pretty green to take the job. When they found they couldn't haze me any other way they got the bally talker to hustle me into the gee tent at the end of my first week to play Mr. Marvel."

"_Stripped_, sir," Patrick announced as he picked up the two piles of cards and carefully placed them face up in front of Taylor, absently tapping the one they'd be using with a finger before he turned his attention to the matchbooks. Taylor had given him permission, after all. Any carny boy worth his salt would count them.

"No-one at the show would play Marvel at poker," Taylor continued as he expertly shuffled the cards – interlacing repeatedly, Brodie noted without surprise. "The guy who talked me into it was running a book on the side about how quickly Marvel would take me for everything I had. Well, first that guy lost out, because I played so long all bets were off," Taylor finished shuffling and put the reduced pack face down in front of him. He glanced at Patrick who was working his way through the matches, putting them into bundles of five, then turned to Brodie and said, "Will?_"_

Brodie started, he'd been concentrating on following Taylor's story and trying to filter out the poker talk. He looked up at Taylor.

"Simon?"

"Are you prepared to be the arbiter of the game, in case of a dispute?"

"Uh, I'm not sure that's–" Brodie began.

"Then we'll use this, except for the ranking," Taylor interrupted smoothly, tapping on the book that was lying on the side of the table. Patrick glanced at the title, it was a beginner's guide to poker.

"Sure, no objections from me," Patrick nodded.

"_Ante up,_" Taylor said, throwing a blue-headed match into the middle of the table. "_You cut when you're ready, then I'll deal._ It took me about two hours to turn the tables on Marvel. First I took his money, then the keys to his truck, then its contents – his show tent, books, costumes and staging, the whole nine yards. By the end of the evening he didn't have an act any more. He tried to bail out on me that night and when I stopped him he cut a deal. I had a bunk from Millican, I couldn't afford to run a truck but I knew I wanted a better job. I let Marvel keep his livelihood so long as he taught it to me. I had to promise not to muscle in on him that season, after that I'd be free to tour a similar act at a different show."

It seemed to William that neither Taylor not Patrick had any problem following each other even though they were holding two wildly different conversations at the same time. Between the jargon of poker and the argot of the carnival William was struggling to follow them and certainly hadn't felt able to join in.

"What was your stage name?" Patrick asked.

"The bed of nails act was 'Mowgli', like the kid in the Jungle Book, but the act belonged to Millican, not me."

"No, the name of your memory act."

"That plan didn't work out for me in the end, I never had a memory act. Turned out I was better at the old ballyhoo than the talker who got me into the gee tent that first week. In no time at all Millican made him swap jobs with me. Guy left before the next stop so Millican hired some other sucker to be 'Mowgli' and I became a permanent talker for the show. You could make good money from it back then, I got paid a percentage and Millican's was the biggest joint on the back end, I made more as the talker for his show than I ever did being 'Mowgli'. Millican was happy because I worked harder and was better at it than that other guy. When I did the outside bally I could turn as many as eight or nine tips an hour on a good day and I'd sometimes clear the midway. I still spent every spare moment of that whole first season practicing Marvel's memory techniques, I found they were good for the job. I've used those memory techniques every day of my life since I learned them. Best poker winnings I ever had."

"_House rules?_ I never saw a ten in one joint, heard plenty about them though. The showmen have recorded bally rather than talkers these days, or they do it themselves. A PA system and a tape on a loop doesn't draw the same tip but it's a lot cheaper than a percentage of the gross. No showman could afford a talker if he had to pay a percentage. I was our bally act for a while as a kid. I did my magic act in time to the recording, dad made me do it as a mute show. He said adults don't want to listen to patter from a kid but everyone would be impressed if the magic was good enough." Patrick saw Taylor's glance and added, "He was right too."

"Hmm. Most adults think kids doing an act are cute."

Maybe they do on amateur night in your local church hall," Patrick sounded scornful. "On the Midway these days people won't part with hard cash unless you're good at what you do, regardless of your age."

"That's changed, then, since my day. The act that could separate the most extra money from the paying customers was the dog-faced boy – because he was so young, poor kid. _No blinds,_ a_nte starts at one, increases after every three games or by mutual agreement, we won't take it higher than five this evening. No limit on bids._"

"What made you leave, sir?"

"At first I'd stay in Gibsonton for a few weeks after the season finished touring then I'd have to get moving again. I'd drift around riding the boxcars or hitchhiking, earning my board and lodgings until the start of the next carnival season. Each year the length of time I'd stick around got longer until after a few years I found I didn't need to chase that horizon any more. At the same time I could see the writing was on the wall for the ten-in-one, people started objecting to the freaks and geeks being on show like that. I decided if I could stomach being in one place over winter then I could handle it on a more permanent basis so I took advantage of the veterans program to get into law school. The memory techniques and my old bally helped. Did you know, in Greek and Roman times memory techniques were taught to lawyers? And talking people into seeing a show was similar enough to talking people into agreeing with my point of view on the law. I was afraid my time on the Midway had been wasted when I first went to college, turns out it was the best pre-law school in the country," Taylor grinned.

How long did you work the Midway, Mr. Taylor?

"Five years, five seasons anyway, June forty-six to August fifty."

"May I ask what you're drinking, sir?" Patrick suddenly asked.

This made Taylor chuckle good-naturedly. "Don't trust appearances, huh? Here."

Before Brodie could react Taylor had passed his glass to Patrick.

"Hey!" Brodie began, but Patrick simply took a sniff at the glass and passed it back.

"I wasn't going to take a sip, Mr. Brodie," Patrick grinned at his shocked expression. "It's whiskey, Mr. Taylor, not apple juice, but I never smelled anything like that before." Patrick introduced a new tone of voice, started up a third conversation with Taylor. "{Where did you learn poker}?"

"{From my dad}," Taylor replied, also with a new tone. "{I guess you did too}?" Patrick nodded. "That, Paddy, is very fine single malt scotch imported direct from Speyside in Scotland by a good friend of mine. _You ready to start? Any more question about the game?_ I bet you haven't ever come across anything like it before," he added.

The conversation was splintering, going in all different directions at once. When Patrick was in a chatty mood this scattergun manner was how he talked, Brodie realized. Brodie had only ever pursued one thing at a time with Patrick, leaving the others to fall by the wayside. Taylor seemed to be picking up each fragment of Patrick's conversation and fixing it on a new thread, tackling them all at the same time just as Patrick did. Brodie looked between Patrick and Taylor. Were they keeping three or four conversations in the air now? He wasn't sure of anything except that he had even less chance of being able to follow them all.

"Single malt scotch," Paddy rolled the words around, almost as if he was savoring the name just as Taylor was savoring the whisky. "I guess there must be lots of different kinds of scotch."

"Hundreds, probably," Taylor chuckled. "I didn't spend long in England on my way back home when the war ended but all they had to drink was warm beer, gin or scotch whiskey. I never did get a taste for warm English beer," he added, eyes twinkling.

"{Was your dad any good?}" Patrick took a last look at his matches arrayed in front of him. "_I'm all set._ I like the smell of that. You can tell it's a kind of whiskey but it smells different to rye or bourbon." Patrick cut the stack of cards. "At the start of the season this year I wanted to learn what liquor smells like, it's harder for someone to slip you a mickey finn if you can smell what's in it. I know whiskey, tequila, rum, gin, vodka and moonshine by smell now. Dad doesn't really drink much, not often, anyways. He says getting drunk is for suckers."

Taylor started dealing. "I guess Alex is right about that, drinking makes suckers of us all, though I would say that we're all suckers about one thing or another, whether we've been drinking or not. You're a bit young to be worried about mickey finns, aren't you, Paddy? {My dad was house player at Sammy Carlo's speakeasy in Cincinnatti. When prohibition ended the mob still ran gambling downstairs so he carried on working for them. He was good at cards, but he was better because of all the little scams they pulled. Without those he wasn't as good as he thought he was.}"

"{Ha, you could say that about my dad too. So if gambling was downstairs, what was upstairs?} _Bet two._ {Dad's good at reading people, good at bluffing, not so good at playing a good hand. That's his weakness.} You'd be surprised what some people want to get little kids to drink. I look younger than I am, people don't expect a little kid like me to know what alcohol smells like."

"{Upstairs? Nothing good,}" Taylor said, making sure Patrick saw him casting a glance at Brodie as he said it. "_See _t_wo and raise four_. Sounds like the lot's gotten a whole lot rougher since my day, even the mobsters in Cincinatti never tried to get a kid drunk. {What's my weakness?}"

"{I don't think you have one, sir.} _Call._ {You started with a good teacher, you had an aptitude for the game, you got better and kept on improving. You've been playing a very long time, long enough to discover your weaknesses and learn how to neutralize them. You'll have tells, though, and you'll have a playing style. Both of those can be either a strength or a weakness.} _Two cards. Oh, we should have said, is there a limit on the number of draws?_ It wasn't anyone from the families, sir. I guess there's some people out there who have a strange sense of humor."

"There surely are," Taylor said, shaking his head. "_Three cards, four if you hold an ace._ {What's your biggest weakness, Paddy?} _Dealer takes one._"

Patrick chuckled. "{Too many to pick just one. I'm working on them.} _Check._"

"{That's not an answer.}"

"{What, after all that big talk about beating Marvel the Memory Man you want me to make this easy for you? Feeling threatened, old man?}" Patrick said this with an easy smile though his eyes had a shrewd look to them. It was Taylor's turn to chuckle.

"{You wish.} Do you mind if I carry on asking questions, Paddy? _Bet four._"

"Not if I can keep asking you questions, too, sir. I like listening to your stories. _See you and raise four__._"

"Touché. Okay. It's been a while since I was able to tell a story to someone who hadn't heard it before." Taylor was more flattered by the boy's interest than he was prepared to admit. "_Raise six__._ I reserve the right not to answer, though."

"Then I reserve the same right. Or I might tell a few, ah, _stories_ of my own, Mr. Taylor, and you can try to spot when I do. I haven't told a downright lie for the last ten days. _Raise another six. _I'm getting out of practice." Patrick grinned at Taylor now, who laughed out loud.

"You practice lying, Patrick?" Brodie cut in. He might not have followed everything up to now but was sure he'd heard that. Patrick looked at him in surprise.

"Tall tales, Mr. Brodie," Patrick said with a hint of reproach in his voice. "There _is_ a difference. It's a kind of entertainment, storytelling. People don't expect the stories to be literally true, they expect them to be interesting and fun. Or to have a moral. Is every story in your bible true? Was the good samaritan a real person or a character in a story that your Jesus made up to make a point?" Taylor glanced between Brodie and Patrick but said nothing.

"Where did you learn about bible stories, Patrick?" Brodie asked. The boy had said he was an atheist, after all.

"I read one of your bibles while you were away last week, Mr. Brodie, and you come across traveling preachers on the circuit sometimes. Either with one of the shows or just in the same town at the same time, in a tent of their own, preaching against the evils of the carnival. My family's Catholic I think, my aunt is anyways, I've been taken to that kind of church too."

"You used to get preachers regularly working the circuit in the forties," Taylor chipped in now. "_See you, and raise twelve." _Patrick glanced sharply at Taylor, who continued unperturbed. "Oftentimes they had the same boss as the kootch show."

Patrick gave a cynical snort. "I guess bosses have always been bosses. That's another kind of tent you see less these days. Pops Ruskin never signed one, anyway, not that I can remember. _Call_. Pops likes to get the local organizers to run a beauty pageant if it's a county show, I've seen my fair share of those. They don't make anything for the show directly but at least they don't compete and they're good for getting the locals to come out."

"The last act for the women and kids in Millican's ten-in-one would be a magic act while the men would get the blowoff. It cost ten cents to get into the tent but all the men would pay a dollar on the way out." This made Patrick chuckle. "Okay, Paddy, you get the first question."

"Thank you, sir. Why did you study law when you left the Midway?"

"I became interested in the law during my time at the carnival." Taylor responded in a carefully bland manner, casting another glance at Brodie. Taylor didn't need to explain himself to Patrick. There was no love lost between carnies and cops. Patrick thought it also explained why he bothered to take on carny folk as clients and handled them personally even now. Taylor's fees had put a big dent in Alex and Patrick's finances that year but it seemed to be small change for a lot of work from Taylor's point of view, judging by everything Patrick had seen of the lawyer so far. "My turn. Who was home-schooling you these last two years, Paddy? Was it your aunt?" Taylor showed his hand, nothing.

"No, sir, Lily left the show when I turned eleven, at the end of the season after I left elementary. _Pair of nines_." Patrick pulled all the matchsticks from the center of the table towards himself, started sorting them out into little bundles of five as he had earlier as he continued talking. "She did most of the teaching when I was very little, used to take me to libraries and museums a lot. I go on my own now. Like I said, these last two years Dad was teaching me the act."

"So who's been teaching you literature, poetry, civics?"

Patrick shrugged, surprised. "No-one, or I guess I taught myself. Every librarian will give you a book list if you ask and all non-fiction has a set of references at the back if you want to read more about a subject."

"You said you learned French from another family on the lot."

I've spoken other languages all my life, sir. I can cuss in Irish thanks to Dad and Lily," Patrick grinned. "Spanish was really the first language I learned after English. My uncle comes from Mexico, I picked up a lot of Spanish when he was teaching it to Lily before I even went to elementary school. When some new foreign act joins the carnival you get to know the language when you get to know the kids. {Why did you choose to bluff then, sir,}" he added curiously, "{that is, if you're prepared to tell me?} My first girlfriend was French, the Schmidts are German, we've had Danish and Italian families on the lot for a couple of years now. One year I learned some Swedish, another year it was Navajo…"

"Okay, okay! I get where the languages come from. {Yes, I'll tell you. I wanted to see how you reacted to me suddenly placing a larger bid, to find out how you looked when you thought I was bluffing, to get a feel for how you play. I'm not planning on giving you much opportunity to win after this first hand.}"

"{That's fighting talk}," Patrick chuckled, collecting all the cards and shuffling them thoroughly. "_Ante up, old man, then we'll see if you're prepared to put your money where your mouth is. _He threw a blue matchstick into the middle of the table before dealing the next hand. His smile turned sly as he rattled off, "Eazi ceazan speazeak Ciazarn."

Taylor froze and stared at Patrick. Brodie stared too: what language was that?

"I haven't heard anyone speak Ciazarn in forty years," Taylor said in wonder. "They still use it?"

"I learned it as a little kid. Dad and Lily would use it when they wanted to talk about something without me listening in. You can imagine how well that worked out for them," Patrick added with a chuckle.

"We would pronounce it more 'Cizarn' than 'Ceazarn' in my day. {How did you know I was bluffing?}"

"The carny kids all speak it, we used to use it at school sometimes, whenever we didn't want the other kids to know what we were talking about. {I didn't know you were bluffing, but I thought you were. I provoked you when I only raised by the same as you rather than more. You raised so much and I thought you looked a little impatient when you did it, as though you were pushing me to fold, so I called instead.} You don't hear it on the lot so much these days. People speak it sometimes to gull the green help or maybe when the townie organizers turn up and try to renegotiate a contract. Day-to-day I'd say they use slang more than Ciazarn."

"_Check_. Your first girlfriend? You had quite a few then, Paddy?" Taylor asked.

"_Check_," Patrick said, and both Patrick and Taylor threw in their hands. "I had to split up with my latest girlfriend last week. Her mom didn't approve of me." Saying that had wiped the grin off Patrick's face.

"Don't take it too personally, Paddy. The parents of teenage girls will always disapprove of the boys they date." Taylor's tone was consoling. "I had a daughter so I did a certain amount of disapproving of my own. I had two sons as well and they both saw their fair share of disapproval. {Did your dad teach you that about poker?}"

Patrick didn't elaborate on exactly why he'd taken splitting up with Ashley so personally. "{No dad didn't teach me that, not directly anyway, that was something I picked up myself in the gee tent. I watched a lot of poker games.}"

"{Kids weren't allowed in the gee tent in my day.}" There was a hint of a question in the way Taylor said it. Patrick handed the cards to Taylor before he spoke.

"{They still aren't. No-one wants kids running around while they're trying to gamble.}" Taylor raised an eyebrow and Patrick continued, "{A quiet kid who sits still behind his dad doesn't always get thrown out.}

"Hmm." Patrick thought that was the sound Taylor made when he was doing some disapproving of his own. "You picked up some math on the Midway, I guess?" That put a smile back onto Patrick's face. They both knew the kind of math Taylor meant, the kind where suckers lost their money in hard-to-follow ways. "I guess you picked up a lot of other things, too, things that are even less useful in school." Patrick's grin widened.

"I think it's my turn to ask a question, not answer them," Patrick deflected.

"Okay, go ahead, Paddy."

"You were twenty-two when you joined the carnival in forty-six, and the veterans program put you through college. What did you do in world war two?" Patrick threw another blue match into the middle as Taylor shuffled and dealt in silence. Patrick was thinking this might be a question Taylor wouldn't answer when the man finally spoke.

"I was in the army, in a gun crew. I could speak Dutch so of course I was deployed in North Africa then Italy."

Patrick simply asked, "Dutch? _Bet two," _he added, putting a single pink match into the middle.

"My mom's parents were Flemish-speaking refugees from the first world war, it's a kind of dialect of Dutch. When Mom died I spent nearly seven years living with them until my grandmother fell ill and I went back to live with my father. I could speak it a little when I moved in with them, I was fluent by the time I moved out. _Call_. I joined up at eighteen but the army, well, maybe they didn't need any more Dutch speakers for the war in Europe, or maybe they decided to send all the people who could speak Arabic or Italian there." Taylor shook his head. "They certainly didn't send them anywhere I went. Nothing the army ever does makes sense when you're in it," he explained.

"We got a few Vietnam veterans in the rigging crews these days," Patrick mused. "_One card_. I guess whatever the war some veterans will always end up joining the show."

"_Dealer takes two._" It was Taylor's turn to ask Patrick something so he was surprised when Taylor spoke to Brodie instead.

"You a veteran, Will?"

"Uh, no. I was too young for Korea and... I wasn't called up for Vietnam."

Patrick could hear the discomfort in the man's voice and see it on his face. Taylor didn't speak and the tense silence extended. The carnival had its share of draft-dodgers as well as veterans. Patrick was aware how that particular tension had occasionally bubbled up into fights on the lot throughout his childhood. He was wary of how both Taylor and Brodie looked right now.

"I wasn't a Kennedy husband, Mr. Taylor." Brodie's voice was getting louder. "I met Sally in fifty-eight, we married in nineteen-sixty. I won't deny I benefitted from Kennedy's change to the rules but we were already married with a toddler when the Vietnam draft came in."

"Of course. I'm sorry, I never meant to imply–"

"Then you're the first veteran to mention it that didn't," Brodie replied heatedly.

"Mr. Brodie," Patrick interjected cautiously, "no-one mentioned the draft apart from you."

Brodie stared at Patrick for a long moment, then ran a hand over his face. "You're right, I'm sorry. Sometimes it feels I've been judged my whole life because I fell in love and got married."

"Did you meet your wife at college?" Taylor enquired politely after a moment.

"She was at college, I was working."

"As an accountant?"

"A trainee accountant, when we met. I started in the mail room at fifteen but I worked my way onto the trainee accountant program. We married the summer Sally graduated."

"Would I know the firm, sir?"

"It was Sands and Walker when I joined. It's SWJP now, of course." This meant nothing to Patrick but Taylor was making it obvious he was impressed – for Brodie's sake, Patrick assumed. He decided it was safe to continue the card game. "_Bet four_," he said, throwing two pink matches into the centre, then he added, "It's your turn to ask me something, Mr. Taylor."

"_Raise eight._ What do you know about your mom's side of your family, Paddy?"

"Not much. _Fold," _Patrick added, throwing in his hand. Taylor scooped up the matches. "I was telling the truth about her photos last week, sir. Apart from those I've seen her death certificate and birth certificate, their marriage certificate. I guess you have too?"

Taylor shook his head. "No son, only your documents and your dad's.

Patrick picked up a pink match then said,_ "can we raise the ante?" _When Taylor nodded '_sure_' he threw it into the centre, picked up the cards and started shuffling them. "I think her family were Irish gypsies but not carnies. Dad fell out with them when she died. I never met them." He'd spent hours looking at the faces of the relatives he'd never met since he first found his parents' wedding photos years ago.

Taylor threw his ante into the middle of the table and Patrick started dealing the next hand, slowly, as though his formerly nimble fingers had forgotten this simple task. He spoke as he did this without looking at Taylor, apparently engrossed in what his hands were doing.

"Um, may I ask, sir, do you, ah, do you… remember your mom?" Patrick looked up then, caught Taylor's expression and quickly added, "Lily taught me to say 'you don't miss what you never had'. It isn't true but it _is_ useful, it stops people asking me about her. Believe me, I understand if you don't want to tell me, sir. Its just… You told me last week that she died when you were young and I wondered... People don't talk about their dead moms so you never know if what you feel is – is what other people feel, too." There was a raw, almost hungry look in Patrick's eyes now. Yet again Taylor was moved by what the boy said. Patrick wasn't trying to manipulate him, he wasn't even trying to put him off his card game. Taylor had asked his question first and it had brought the boy's mom to his mind. Patrick had found it hard simply framing the question. Taylor remembered the boy had told him that his dad didn't like talking about his mom. He guessed the boy's aunt hadn't said much about her, either. He wondered if Patrick had ever found anyone to talk to about his loss.

"_Check. _I do remember my mom," Taylor began quietly. "Not as much as I'd like, it was a long time ago. She was the most glamorous-looking mom out of all my class. She was a terrible cook." Taylor found himself smiling at that memory. "She loved dancing. I was eight when she fell ill and my grandmother moved in to look after us, much to dad's disgust. She took care of mom to the end, then she took me home with her after the funeral. I was nine by then. Nana never did approve of my dad."

"_Bet t__wo__. _Uh, how – how did she…" Brodie was surprised at Patrick's hesitancy, astonished that they were able to carry on playing cards given the other conversation they were having.

"Tuberculosis. The kind of disease that used to be a killer before penicillin came along. _Call_. My grandmother was very like mom in a lot of ways but… well, there really is no such thing as a substitute. I missed her every day of my childhood. When you grow up… well, there was a war on, I joined up when I was seventeen. Everything was different after that." Patrick nodded but didn't speak, he'd been listening intently to everything Taylor said. Taylor took a deep breath before adding, "How about you? _Draw one card._"

"_Dealer takes one. _Mom died when I was two days old. Her death certificate says 'septic shock'. I looked it up once, it means she got an infection when I was born. It must have been real quick."

"That's a blessing," Taylor's said quietly. At Patrick's surprised look he added with conviction, "a slow death in a loved one is a terrible thing to have to witness."

"What Lily taught me to say isn't true," Patrick repeated. "You do miss what you never had."

In the brief silence that followed Brodie realised he'd been holding his breath. He let it out as quietly as he could, not wanting to interrupt. He had also been deeply moved by their tales of loss, and the clear bond of friendship that had already formed between Patrick and Taylor.

"So where did Lily fit in all this? She's your dad's sister? _Bet four._"

"_Uh, raise four. _Yeah, Lily moved in with dad just a couple of days later to help out with me, even though she was still a kid herself then – she was seventeen, I think. She's a seamstress, a good one, she made all our costumes for years, she did costumes for everyone during the off-season. When we were on the road she ran the cotton candy concession stands. Lily and Dad raised me."

"_Raise eight. _She moved out two years ago?"

She moved out when she got married, but only to the trailer next door. We still all lived like a family until two years ago, when she was going to have their first baby. Estaban's sister's a midwife down in Mexico, his mom lives there too so they went back to his home town to give birth down there. _R__aise sixteen_. Pops Ruskin brought in his own cotton candy concessions at our carnival when she left so Lily and Estaban didn't come back. They were working a circuit in Texas and the South until a couple months ago, not Michael Ruskin's but covering much the same states, until they left to have their second baby in Mexico too. She was born two weeks ago."

"_Call, what do you have?_. So you have two cousins?"

"A boy and a girl. I never met them. Dad and Lily didn't fight when she left but she's never been back and we haven't been to see her. Dad was talking about maybe heading down there this winter, but… _Two pair_."

"_Full house_." Taylor scooped up all the matches.

"_Lucky."_

"_Skilful."_

Patrick was curious. "Why, what did you see?"

"You know about pupil dilation?"

"I know about it between men and women," Patrick began warily.

"Anything desirable," Taylor replied. "It can apply to anything. A hungry man seeing food, a drunk seeing booze, a man seeing a pretty woman by all means, or a card player seeing, well, a better hand than two pair, anyway. If you hadn't been bluffing your pupils would have blown wide open for a second when you first saw what you had. You get more of a feel for it the more you play someone at cards because the reaction varies from one person to another. For most people it's noticeable the first time they see a good hand, or if they draw the cards they need to make a good hand. Any card game, not just poker."

"You know it can be faked, right?" Patrick grinned.

Taylor looked at him sharply. "I did not know that. I never saw anyone fake that look. How do you know that?"

"Women used to put belladonna drops in their eyes to fake the look, hundreds of years ago I mean, that's why the plant's called 'belladonna', the name means 'pretty lady' in Italian." Patrick looked a little smug.

"It's not quite the same, that's more making them look permanently dark rather than faking the reaction. You watch out for the change, not how dark someone's eyes are. As I said, peoples' reactions differ."

"I guess," Patrick replied, determined now to practice in the mirror until he could make the pupils of his eyes change size at will.

"Being a little drunk can stop your eyes reacting like that," Taylor continued. "Illegal narcotics change your pupil size like those eye drops you mentioned, it's something cops look for on a stop-and-search."

"I didn't know that about cops. I do know you'll never win at poker if you're drunk or high. Is that why you're only sipping at your whiskey tonight, sir? To get just a little drunk, stop your eyes reacting to the cards?"

"Don't flatter yourself, kid," Taylor growled, amused. "Like I said, I had a hell of a day at work today. And fine whiskey like this? You sip it, you don't knock it back."

Their conversation turned lighter as the poker game turned more serious. After forty minutes and another cup of tea Patrick excused himself to the bathroom. As soon as he was out of earshot, Taylor turned to Brodie.

"You have to keep him away from the gangs," Taylor began without preamble.

"What?" Brodie was utterly taken aback. Before Patrick left they had been discussing carnival food.

"We're developing a gang problem here in Carson Springs. It started small when the last big lumber mill closed but its gotten worse as the other big employers have moved away. When the kids feel like they have no future they become easy prey for the gangs."

Brodie sighed. "That's one reason we foster, group homes can be recruiting grounds for gangs."

"Patrick's smart, a little ruthless when it comes to getting his own way and way too good at making excuses to himself for his own bad behavior. I'm not saying he's a bad kid but he hasn't had a whole lot of moral guidance in his life. He wants to be wealthy and for now he's decided his best option to achieve that isn't school, it's improving the act he does with his dad and moving into a more lucrative side of show business than the carnival. Given his circumstances and abilities he might even be right about that. The thing I'm most afraid of is one of the Carson Springs gangs getting hold of him. That's another route to easy money, one that he might find hard to resist."

"He's not a violent boy! Surely he's too bright to want to join a gang?"

"Too bright to choose it or be tricked into it but gangs are good at coercing people to do what they want and once they have their hooks in someone they make it very hard to get away. The carnival is like a gang. Only in their attitude to outsiders and suspicion of the authorities I mean," Taylor added at Brodie's expression. "They're good people, not criminals, no matter what the stereotypes say. But it would mean he'd understand the ethos of a gang, he'd fit right in, and he's too wary to go to the cops if he was being coerced by a gang."

"His father's a criminal." Brodie was looking serious now but Taylor shook his head.

"His father never had anything to do with gangs or organized crime. I'm asking you to make sure Patrick doesn't either."

Patrick returned from the bathroom at that point so Taylor simply gave Brodie a look before the game resumed. They continued to chat and Patrick continued to lose. Thirty minutes later he lost his last matchstick.

You played well, son," Taylor smiled encouragingly. "You won a few hands."

"You're an interesting player to watch, Mr. Taylor, as well as to play. I'd like to see how you play someone else."

"I don't think that's going to happen, Paddy."

"I'm going to play better next time, sir." Patrick said this as though it was a statement of fact, not a cocky boast.

Taylor chuckled, unimpressed. "So am I, son." That made Patrick laugh too.

At the door on their way out Taylor shook Brodie's hand.

"Thanks for having us over this evening, Simon."

"It was good to get to know you a little better, Will. Paddy, that was the most enjoyable poker game I had in a long time."

"Maybe next week we can start teaching you poker, Mr. Brodie?" Patrick suggested innocently.

"It's very kind of you to offer, Patrick, but –" Brodie began anxiously, then caught sight of both Patrick's and Taylor's expressions. "Oh, very funny," he said, grinning weakly.

"You should have seen your face, Will," Taylor chuckled.

"A picture," Patrick agreed.

"Yeah, you got me," Brodie shook his car keys. "Come on, young man, let's get you home. You have school tomorrow."


	18. Chapter 18

"... yeah, Ashley Morgan, from Mrs. Bolton's class." Patrick hadn't intended to overhear the girls, he had just arrived at school and was at his locker in the hall. The voices sounded as though the girls were only a few feet away on the other side of his locker door. There was the sound of a locker being shut and the voice continued, heading slowly along the hall in his direction. "I heard it from Stacey who heard it from Kim who heard it from Rico Montez, he's in Ashley Morgan's home room class so he should know." Patrick stood frozen as the voice passed behind him then he turned and identified two girls as the source of the gossip about Ashley. He didn't recognize either of them.

"Oh my God! She always seemed so quiet!" the shorter girl exclaimed breathlessly.

"It's always the quiet ones," the first voice belonged to the taller girl with short hair and a shoulder bag. Patrick followed them, close enough so he could carry on listening over the noise of the corridor.

"Who's the boy?"

"A new guy, I don't recall the name," the first voice dropped, "a boy from the carnival." She gave he friend a significant look. "You know what carny boys are like." Patrick knew what townie kids would yell at carny boys, he didn't expect it got any better when they gossiped about them amongst themselves.

"Animals," the second girl nodded, her voice sounding both disdainful and full of gleeful malice. Patrick's eyebrows rose. Really? That was the best she could do? An attitude like that should be attached to a girl who at least managed a little more eloquence. "My mom says the city should do something about that trailer park up at Stoney Ridge."

Sidetracked for a moment Patrick idly wondered what sort of thing the city could do about Stoney Ridge, if they had a mind to. Nothing good, not for the inhabitants anyway, though it would affect the static trailers more than the carnies. He went back to wondering whether he would find out exactly what he and Ashley were supposed to have done. He didn't have to wait long.

"Anyway the way I heard it he practically _attacked_ her, then he dumped her once he'd gotten what he wanted. She's so upset now because she let him do it to her and she's afraid she might be –" here the girl didn't just drop her voice, she stopped in the hall to turn to her friend and whisper in her ear. Patrick quickly turned his face to the lockers in case she saw him. When he glanced up again they were moving off, though he did catch a glimpse of the first girl's face before she fully turned away. She was trying to look scandalized but couldn't hide the underlying expression of glee.

Patrick turned away too. It was an ugly rumor but it was too ludicrous for him to feel truly offended by it. He tucked himself away in the nearest boy's restroom, looking at himself in the mirror as he absently washed his hands. He still looked more like a little kid than a Casanova._ Heard it from Rico Montez_. Maybe this rumor was supposed to cause trouble for him, not Ashley. That would be like Rico, Patrick thought, malicious but clumsy. Though it put Ashley in an awkward position, especially – and this thought was uncomfortable – if Patrick himself had made it worse by asking Ashley to keep quiet. Rumors like this spread faster than wildfire if there wasn't an authoritative rebuttal also circulating. According to Liss, Ashley hadn't been saying anything to anyone about their relationship or why it ended.

Patrick entered home room warily. True to form, Tran and Ashley were both already there. He glanced around the room. Rico looked in his direction with a grin of triumph on his lips before he and the Jockabees turned away and started whispering. They weren't the only ones. Tran smiled in greeting, it was unlikely anyone had passed any gossip his way. Ashley looked… Yeah, someone had told a version of the rumor to her. Patrick nodded to Tran in greeting but went to his old perch on Ashley's desk first. She started and glanced at him, her face a picture of misery.

"Hey, Ashley," he began in a low voice. "You'll never believe what I heard just now in the hall."

"Was it a horrible rumor about me?" she asked. "Because if it was I can absolutely believe you heard it. Everyone else in the school has." She sounded as though she was about to start crying.

"Yeah, and about me. The version I heard, I'm practically a criminal and you're definitely the victim of my delinquent ways. I thought I should come over and, you know, maybe molest you a little more or announce to the class that we're going to be on TV, Geraldo Rivera's going to do a special about pre-teen pregnancy." Patrick was smiling as he said this. He lowered his voice even further, eyes twinkling. "Should I be insisting on a paternity test?"

"Oh don't, it isn't funny!" Ashley whispered, one of the tears starting a lonely journey down her cheek before she dashed is aside with a quick movement of her hand.

"Hey, Ashley, I'm sorry, it's just – it's ridiculous, you only have to think about it for a second, I mean look at us." Patrick paused until Ashley did at last look at him. "If you like I could probably get hold of a donkey and a manger but I don't know any stables around here." Ashley looked confused so Patrick continued, "I can do an astrological chart but I'm not sure I can conjure up a new star. And finding three wise men in Carson Springs is gonna be a challenge…" Ashley's snort of laughter was halfway to being a sob but she managed a weak grin afterwards. "C'mon, Ashley," Patrick's smile was sympathetic. "Don't let it get to you. Laugh at anyone who mentions it for repeating such obvious nonsense."

"That's easy for you to say, you're not being called a, a…" Ashley ground to a halt, blushing furiously.

"You need to start telling people the real reason why we had to split up." Patrick said reasonably.

"I – I thought you didn't want that," Ashley said, but there was hope in her eyes.

"I didn't want people judging me because of rumors about my dad," although Patrick already had a few ideas about how he could deal with that, if it arose. "But this is worse, don't you think? People love to gossip about sex." Ashley's blush flared again at the word. Patrick held back his smile, Ashley wouldn't want to hear he thought she looked cute when she was embarrassed. "Gossip about parents in prison? Nowhere near as interesting."

"I did promise –" she began in a small voice.

"Aw, Ashley, that's sweet of you but I didn't think being quiet about dad would lead to nasty gossip about you. You won't be breaking your promise, I'm letting you off it. Just… don't go into details, okay? Say my dad's in prison and your mom objected to you dating me once she found out. That's all true. I mean, you can go into details with Liss and Julia if it'll help, Liss knew from day one that dad was in jail – I mean, that's the whole reason I'm in foster care – so I guess Julia knows all about my dad too. Andy's parents read the article your mom wrote so he knows, so does Tran. If anyone else asks you what my dad did just say you aren't sure, that's true too. After all I'm not sure. Dad and his lawyer weren't sure either, Mr. Taylor said even the DA wasn't sure, the law needs clarifying before anyone can be sure if what he did was illegal. We just couldn't afford for him to fight anything in court. It was political. He got a good deal in return for pleading guilty."

"Is that really true?"

Patrick smiled at her question. She was very much the daughter of a reporter. "I think so. He was only arrested two weeks ago and he's already been convicted and moved from county jail to the state penitentiary in Bacaville. Everyone I asked who'd done time said you're usually on bail or in jail for months before your trial, even when you plea bargain. Our lawyer told me the DA wanted a quick win and lo and behold, dad's sentenced only a week after his arrest. All those things the Governor said, they made it look like he was jailing the right guy, didn't they? Was it really a coincidence he got to say that stuff in the week before the election? I don't think so."

"You know ex-offenders?"

Patrick ignored this. He'd forgotten how sheltered Ashley's life had been compared to his. Barton was probably far and away the worst bad guy she'd ever encountered.

"I'm just saying you can honestly tell everyone you aren't sure why my dad's in prison. You can honestly tell them I'm a great boyfriend as well, if you like," he added with a twinkle in his eye and a grin. That made Ashley smile, her first genuine smile that morning. "That's better. The next person who asks you about it, laugh in their face then tell them about your mom and my dad. Hey, I know what else will cheer you up. I never did take you to Carson Springs library. I've taken Tran a few times now, would you like to check it out with me instead, after school today?"

"I can't, my marching band has extra practice after school today, the parade is tomorrow."

"I didn't know you were in a marching band! What do you play?"

"Flute. Band practice is usually Thursdays but we can't rehearse on election night so we have extra practice on the Friday after, because we always have a short parade on the Saturday after an election. This will be my third parade in Carson Springs since we moved here, but my first election parade. We got a new mayor, the first lady mayor ever in Carson Springs, Mom says it's a historic occasion, she's covering it for the newspaper and said she'd make sure a picture of me in the parade will make the front page on Monday. She said getting her daughter into historical newspaper articles is the only perk her job has."

"Do you wear a hat?" Patrick was already smiling just thinking about the marching bands he'd seen in other places.

Ashley giggled. "Yeah, a tall peaked hat in pink with three white buttons down the front. It's part of the band uniform. I'm in a girls-only band. There's a boys' marching band too, they'll be there tomorrow as well. I was in a mixed band up in Shasta County, I don't know why they don't have a mixed marching band here in Carson Springs because the two bands always march in the same parades here."

Patrick didn't care about the gender politics of marching bands but he had enjoyed seeing Ashley in the cheerleader costume at Halloween. "If you're wearing a uniform with a tall pink hat to play flute tomorrow I am definitely going to watch this parade," Patrick grinned. Ashley laughed aloud.

* * *

Patrick arrived early for math class. Today he was getting the result of his test and was hoping to chat to Mrs. Smith before class started. He was first into the classroom and went straight to the teacher's desk at the front.

"Good morning, Mrs. Smith," Patrick began a little warily, trying to gauge whether she was disappointed with his performance in the test.

"Hello, Patrick. I was expecting you'd want to talk to me today." Smith was smiling.

"Yeah, about the test I did last week…"

"There you go, Patrick." It was his answer sheet, with '8%' printed in the results box at the bottom. "You hinted you thought you were going to fail but I don't understand how you only got eight percent. I mean, even choosing answers at random gives you a one in four chance of getting each one right. What did you do?"

Patrick took his copy of the question sheet from his bag. It was covered in working out for each question. He turned to the first one.

"There's the answer, there's my workings, the correct choice for question one is 'B'. I crossed out 'B' on the answer sheet for question forty instead of question one then worked my way up, not down."

"You must really want to stay in my sixth grade class." Smith looked thoughtful rather than pleased. "Why is that, Patrick?"

"I think you're the best teacher in the school, the best out of all my teachers anyway. I really want to keep studying math with you," Patrick replied simply.

"Oh!" Smith sounded a little taken aback. She recovered quickly and looked at Patrick curiously. "You're very forthright. I can see why Liz Jepson told me to watch my step with you! I don't know what to say to that, Patrick. Thank you, I guess."

"It's my honest opinion, ma'am," he replied with his sincerest smile, wondering what exactly Jepson had said. Enough to make Smith wonder about his motives, clearly, but not enough to put her off coaching him in math. "You're willing to teach me the math I'm most interested in rather than making me cover the sixth grade stuff. I don't think any of the other teachers here would be prepared to do that."

"I guess that's true, although any teacher would have had to coach you individually if you'd been behind. Coaching someone who's ahead of the class is a new experience for me and it's one I –" Smith stopped abruptly, looking a little awkward. Patrick thought she had been about to tell him she was enjoying it. Maybe she felt saying so to him would be inappropriate. Or maybe… _Liz Jepson told me to watch my step._ What would Jepson have advised her to do? If Jepson was a friend of Lily's back in the day then she would know how psychic acts worked. She'd be wary of Patrick herself after the number he pulled on her in order to get his hall pass. She'd probably warn her friend to make sure Smith didn't let anything personal slip. Yeah, she couldn't accuse him of blackmailing her, he'd been more subtle than that, but she had clearly put Smith on her guard against giving away anything personal and apparently that included telling Patrick she enjoyed teaching him. Smith had started talking again.

"So, uh, Patrick, it looks like you'll be staying with us in sixth grade for the rest of the year." Smith gave him a bright smile which Patrick found he could return. It was okay by him if Smith wanted to maintain her professional detachment, whatever her reasons were for doing so. He found it didn't affect his respect for her and it didn't have to change their cordial teacher-student relationship: friendly, not friends. As for Jepson, he found that he didn't care what she had said. If she had been so vague about the warning she gave her friend then he didn't have to worry about her being more specific about him with Goole.

"I guess it does, ma'am," Patrick replied, eyes twinkling.

"Okay. I'll just get the rest of the class started on some practice then we'll take a look at your real test answers. In the meantime you can start reading about the normal distribution." Smith slipped him a book on statistics. "Chapter seven in this new book, then you can do the questions from chapters seven and eight. You can ask me if there's anything you don't understand when I call you out to the front in about twenty minutes. You asked me last week about game theory? This book has a little bit to say about it in the last chapter."

"Thank you, ma'am," Patrick said, smiling politely and taking the book. Smith smiled back at him and he headed over to take a seat next to Tran.

"You sweet on Smith, dude?" Tran whispered to him as the class started. "It looked like you were trying to flirt with her."

"That, my friend, is called being polite to your teacher. You should try it some time," Patrick deflected.

"You are, you're sewet on her!" Tran was grinning. .

"I think _you're_ sweet on her, Chi," Patrick shot back. "You got a B-minus for math on your report card last week, it was your top grade."

"How do you know my grades?"

"Oh come on, Chi, you sit next to me in home room." In fact Patrick had snuck Tran's report card out of his bag and back while walking between classes last Friday. Chi wasn't failing math, industrial arts, physical education or art, in spite of having spent so much time doing in school suspension. That might explain why Tran hadn't been held back in sixth grade for every class. Or maybe in this school they only repeated sixth grade for math and English. That would explain why Patrick also had remedial classes only in those subjects. "And you're stalling. You _are_ sweet on Smith."

"Am not!" Tran denied, blushing.

"Well I think you picked the nicest teacher on the whole staff, Chi," Patrick opined blandly. "She's young and good looking too. You have good taste. She's married, though."

"Shut _up_! I'm not sweet on her, she's a good teacher, that's all."

"It's okay, Chi, there's no need to be jealous. I am in fact not sweet on her. I think she's a little sweet on me though. I mean, who could resist this?" Patrick pouted and puffed out his chest, throwing his jacket and vest off one shoulder in an absurd and thankfully brief 'Mick Jagger' pose. This made Tran snort with rapidly-suppressed laughter and earned them both a disapproving look and a 'settle down, there' from Smith. Tran glared at Patrick before turning away and pointedly ignoring him. It didn't last. Whenever Patrick caught Tran's eye he would grin and Tran found himself grinning back each time.

* * *

Patrick and Ashley were settling down beside each other on one side of the workbench at the start of industrial arts when Patrick noticed the change of expression on both Tran and Andy's faces. A second later Rico's voice behind them made Ashley start.

"You little lovebirds back together? Is that filthy carny gonna do the right thing by you, chica?" Rico sneered. Patrick turned, pasting on an easy smile.

"Oh, hey Rico," Patrick began mildly. "It's okay, no need to be jealous, Lover-boy, I'm not back together with Ashley." Ashley looked as though she was about to speak so Patrick pressed on. "I'd let you take me out to dinner and a movie tonight but you're not really my type and I heard you prefer boys who put out on their first date. I don't even kiss on the first date, not on the lips anyway." Patrick was looking Rico in the eye as he said this but flicked his gaze down on the words 'kiss' and 'lips'. As a disgusted look started to appear on Rico's face (an astonished one had already flooded Ashley's) Patrick eased off his stool and stood a little too close to the boy, saying in his best Liberace voice and a little too loudly, "Man, you smell _so nice_. Did you wear cologne today just for me?" Every head in the class turned to watch as Patrick took an exaggerated sniff in Rico's direction and hummed approvingly. Rico took a step back, holding up his hands and hesitating, as though he both wanted to hit or push Patrick away but also didn't want to touch him. Patrick's wasn't shouting but was projecting his campest voice now as he said, "Oh Rico, it's okay, you can put your hands on me, I know you want to."

Mayer heard this last phrase as he entered the classroom. His voice rang out over the sounds of amusement, "What is going on here?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mayer," Patrick called across the classroom. "Rico and I, well, I guess we have a, a complicated relationship, sir. We won't bring it into the classroom again." Around half the class were sniggering now.

Patrick was impressed, Mayer only took a second to process and dismiss this before he was all business.

"Front and center, both of you! Mr. Jane, you stand this side of my desk, facing that way." It put Patrick's back to the desk and gave him the wall to look at. Ah well, Patrick was sure Rico would be too preoccupied to enjoy his view out of the window. "Mr. Montez, you stand right there, facing that way. You do not talk! You do not move! I will deal with you both later." Mayer didn't give either boy a second glance as he turned back to the rest of the class and started talking about what they would be doing today. Patrick listened carefully – he wanted to be able to catch up with this class afterwards – and sure enough, as soon as the class was set it's task Mayer turned his attention back to Rico and Patrick.

"Outside. Now." Mayer opened the door to the classroom then followed the boys outside. Patrick was impressed again by the man when he pulled the door but not all the way shut. Mayer had clearly mastered the trick of being able to focus on one task while paying enough attention to the surroundings (or in his case the rest of the class) to handle any problems.

"Okay, Enrico, why were you over at Patrick's bench again today," Mayer began. Patrick was curious as well. What story would Rico come up with to explain his actions?

"I just went over because I heard a real _nasty_ rumor about what this guy did to Ashley Morgan. I wanted to make sure she was okay, after all, we all know that _carny boys_ do terrible things to girls sometimes." Rico's smile was smug, he clearly thought that he had let Patrick's guilty secret out of the bag. Mayer looked unimpressed.

"You've never been a friend to Ashley Morgan before, Enrico. Patrick, Andy Williams, even Chi Tran, they all sat with her in my class before now but never you."

Rico hadn't expected anything like this from Mayer. Surprise was etched on his face as he tried to think of a response.

"Uh, she's in my class. I, um, think boys have a duty to, er, defend the reputations of girls in their class even if they don't know them so well." For a split second Rico looked pleased that he'd thought this up on the spur of the moment.

"So you decided to defend her reputation by listening to nasty rumors about her then telling her all about them." Mayer sounded scathing. "God forbid you ever take it on yourself to defend my reputation."

"Uh, sir –"

"Quiet, Enrico, you had your turn. Okay, Patrick, you've had a bit longer to think, what lies are you gonna try to make me swallow?"

"Well, you know my family circumstances, Mr. Mayer, there's no need to cover that ground again," Patrick began in his most respectful voice, his eyes on his shoes. This afforded him a good sidelong view of both Rico and Mayer, who gave a slight unconscious nod at what Patrick said. Rico's face fell when he saw Mayer nod and Patrick inwardly cheered. Mayer clearly thought Patrick was referring to being in care or his dad's incarceration. Rico had assumed the nod meant Mayer already knew Patrick was a carny kid and his dismay that his news wasn't the bombshell he had hoped was written all over his face. "Last week I dated Ashley a couple of times but as soon as I heard her mom wanted her to break up with me, well, we broke up." Now he looked Mayer in the eye as he said, "I wouldn't sneak around, sir, I couldn't show that kind of disrespect to her or her family. I asked Ashley to keep quiet about it because –" and here he artfully looked back down at his shoes, dropped his voice, "because I didn't want everyone knowing I wasn't good enough for her, sir." Humility didn't come naturally to Patrick but truth rang through his words and made his manner seem authentic too. Patrick's pause lasted just a heartbeat, he wasn't going to let either Mayer or Rico interrupt. His voice turned firmer.

"As soon as I heard the rumor this morning I told her she could tell everyone whatever she liked about me, if it would help." His eyes flew to Mayer's again, this time with an intensity that burned, his voice turning fierce. "It isn't true. The rumors aren't true. I would never hurt a young lady. I like Ashley very much and she's only twelve, sir. I swear, we never did anything we shouldn't." Mayer looked surprised, moved, _convinced_. Patrick dropped his eyes again to hide the triumph in them. From the corner of his eye Patrick could see Rico looking dumbfounded.

"Patrick, return to your workbench." Mayer paused until Patrick opened the classroom before continuing. "Enrico, this is the second time you've been out of your seat and bothering –"

The noise as he entered the workshop drowned out Mayer's words but Patrick was reasonably convinced Rico would be getting a detention. He sauntered back to his place at the workbench careful to keep his face solemn.

"Is everything okay, Patrick?" Ashley asked nervously. "You aren't in trouble, are you?"

Patrick looked up, looked around at three concerned faces, then beamed at them.

* * *

The reckoning came after the class. An incandescent Rico caught up with Patrick in the lunch line, this time there was a whole gang of Jockabees behind him. Patrick scanned their faces, at least some of them were looking embarrassed, though whether by Rico's behavior or their own he couldn't tell. Tran had tensed up at his side, Ashley looked nervous, Andy almost looked sick, he hated these confrontations with Rico.

"You think you're real funny, huh, _Janey_? You think you're gonna get away with this?"

"I don't know what you mean, Lover-boy," Patrick replied loudly in his camp voice again. That caught the attention of everyone in earshot and Patrick knew he was better at working an audience than Rico.

Rico winced involuntarily at the word but didn't back down. "When I finish with you your own momma ain't gonna recognize you!"

That touched a raw nerve. Patrick took half a step closer – so did Tran – then spoke in a voice so low that only Rico and Tran could hear.

"Step away, Rico. You say whatever you came to say, I'll pretend I can't think of anything to top that, then you can go back to your friends and tell them you got me beat."

"Or what?" Rico sneered.

"I will destroy you. I will call down fire from heaven and raise up demons from hell and make you regret you were ever born." Yeah, this guy was brought up in a Catholic home, Patrick's sudden use of religious imagery had thrown Rico way off balance. "Every waking day will be purgatory and each moment of sleep will be populated with the ghosts of the spiteful dead. I'm a gypsy, I'm psychic, I can see unquiet spirits surround you already, Rico, for you have already done terrible things in your short life; each misdeed has left its imprint on your soul and those stains are a beacon to them. I could unleash them, I can see that's what they want me to do. I swear I will do all of this and more if you cross me. You do not want a gypsy's vengeful curse on you. God does the judging and punishment is most surely the Devil's work, but the gift of the gypsy is to name the day of judgement, should we choose to do so. You do not want me to name today as yours, Rico. Step away." Patrick imbued each word with a calm conviction that was chilling. "Call me the name which is in your mind right now, I will not retaliate and you can walk away."

"Faggot!" Rico said it almost involuntarily, eyes wide and fearful, his voice a little higher than normal. Patrick remained silent, nodding almost imperceptibly. "Ain't gonna dirty my hands on a fuckin' carny faggot." With that Rico turned away. A quick glance around Rico's posse showed a mix of confusion and relief. No-one else was keen to cause trouble right now.

"You okay, Patrick?" Ashley asked.

"I've been called much worse things. Rico doesn't bother me," Patrick replied.

"It bothers me," Andy commented. "I can't believe that I used to be friends with that guy."

"What the hell was that all about?" Tran whispered to Patrick, quietly so the others didn't hear. "I thought we were gonna have a fight for sure! Then you start talking weird and I don't even know what happened next and I was right there when it happened!"

"You a religious man, Chi?" Patrick asked nonchalantly.

"Nah, man."

"Me neither. Rico was raised religious. Every religion on the planet has stories about judgement and punishment. They're stories to keep people in line and they've lasted hundreds of years because they work. You use the right words, you get someone thinking about those stories and they feel that ancient fear of judgement and punishment. Faith is a very powerful thing, Chi. Faith can move mountains. I'm not religious but I have a great deal of faith in faith."

"Whatever, man. It wouldn't work on me."

"Probably not," Patrick grinned as they approached the front of the line. "Worked like a charm on Rico, though, didn't it?"

* * *

Patrick had found Tran _could_ read. Almost. Sort of. Tran was dismissive of the written alphabet, 'just squiggles on a page, man, letters just stand for sounds, they don't _mean_ anything'. Once the letters were put together into words he struggled to comprehend what was going on. Mostly he approximated reading by spotting the first letter or two of a word, then guessing what that word might be. Context meant little because the effort was expended on the guesswork needed to read individual words rather than understanding the sentences that the words formed. Patrick noted without surprise that practicing helped, the more often Tran tried reading the better he got but the improvements were slow. It worked better if Tran read out loud (which he hated – 'little kids do that, man!' he'd protested to Patrick, though he had acquiesced when Patrick had replied 'and actors, and the guy on the TV news, lots of people read out loud all the time') because Tran understood words better if he sounded out the letters. It was slow and frustrating for both boys.

Now that Tran had people to talk to Patrick found he was good with words when not asked to write them down. Tran liked rap music, could do 'human beatbox' sounds very well and had a good instinct for putting words together to a rhythm. He complained more than once that written words on a page had no beat to them so the previous lunchtime Patrick and Tran had gone through the poetry book they both had, at least the strongly rhythmic poems. Tran's favorite was a short excerpt from Longfellow's 'Hiawatha' which he enjoyed when Patrick read it to him, both for it's steady rhythm and also because Patrick had to sound out the Indian names before he could read them, much as Tran did with regular words. He even did his language arts homework that lunchtime, though he didn't let Patrick see it, handing it in the same day to a very surprised Ms. Portman.

Tran's biggest problem, it seemed to Patrick, was with the shapes of the letters. He struggled when they had tails that dropped below the line of writing or where the only difference was a loop left or right, though there didn't seem to be anything wrong with his eyesight. Something about the shapes of the letters when grouped together as words didn't make sense to Tran.

The idea had come to Patrick in art class that same afternoon. Tran was definitely more relaxed in art class. Novak had announced that their final project in the run up to Thanksgiving would be producing decorations, either to take home or to put on the tables in the dining hall on the last Friday before the break, when the catering staff would be producing a special Thanksgiving lunch for the school. She had demonstrated some paper sculpture techniques then brought out all the craft supplies rather than the art supplies. The room suddenly looked more like a kindergarten class than anything else, with brightly-colored modelling clay and paper, wool and fabric, glitter and glue all emerging and being put around the classroom for general use.

The noise in the class rose as people started to talk over their ideas. Patrick knew a little origami and was keen to try out the new paper scoring, cutting and shaping techniques Novak had just shown them all. He chatted briefly with Andy, who was going to do something with cardboard boxes and tissue paper, then turned to Tran and stopped dead.

The boy had left his seat as soon as Novak stopped talking and had returned carrying hundreds of pipe cleaners in a range of colors. He was already twisting them into shape, his focus entirely on what his hands were doing. Tran might not be so good with a pen in his hand but he had no problems with this.

"What's your idea, Chi?" Patrick asked conversationally. Tran stopped, looked up. Patrick could almost see him thinking he was being mocked again. He hadn't had one of his angry outbursts in nearly two weeks, this was the longest he'd been out of ISS this term and Patrick wasn't prepared to lose his in-school bodyguard over this if he could help it. He was sure the presence of Tran was the only thing keeping Rico out of his hair. "I'm gonna do paper flowers," he swiftly added, though he'd been talking about making a paper cornucopia to Andy. "They might not be very Thanksgiving-y but I'll do them in oranges and browns, maybe throw in a bit of paper fruit to tie in with the season." Nothing would be easier to mock than a boy making pretty paper flowers. Whatever Tran was doing would surely pale by comparison.

"I'm making a big, fat turkey," Tran replied, a dangerous edge to his voice.

"Cool," Patrick said, his tone just on the interested side of offhand. "How big you gonna make it?"

Tran hesitated for a second, still scrutinizing Patrick's face for any hint of mockery, then held out his hands in front of him.

"This big," he indicated. "This is just the head I'm working on."

"That's big," Patrick nodded. "Won't the legs cause some problems?"

"Nah, man, he's sitting down, with his tail up on display, and his head up like this." Tran held his arm up, clasping his hand like a bird's beak and indicating how the neck of his bird would be folded back over its body.

"That's a good pose, Chi." Patrick considered the imaginary turkey in front of them in tones of approval, then added, "Yeah, I like your idea," before turning back to his own work. Glancing sideways he could see a faint smile on Tran's face as the boy got back to work on the beak, head and neck. This wasn't some crude attempt, Tran was skillfully sculpting the pipe cleaner wires into the three-dimensional shapes he needed, adding a comb to the top of the head then bending it over and making tiny adjustments to get it to sag at the front just as it would on a real bird. Right here and now it didn't look as though Tran had any trouble with the shapes of anything.

That had given Patrick the idea. He drifted over to the craft supplies and picked up two large handfuls of black pipe cleaners. He turned his back to Novak as he returned to his seat with a swift smile, tucking them away in his bag and pockets. Tran was the only one who noticed, giving Patrick a quizzical look.

"Later, dude," Patrick had murmured.

Now it was after school on Friday, Patrick and Tran were again in the city library, currently alone up in the archive room that contained several tables pushed together just like in their art classroom. Patrick unearthed the pipe cleaners.

"Yeah, why did you take those yesterday, man?" Tran asked.

"For this," Patrick said as he took the first pipe cleaner and twisted it into a circle with one straight side and a little tail – the letter 'a'. He handed it to Tran. "I think you'll get a better feel for the letters if you, uh, get a better feel for the letters," he said with a shrug. "Try making your name in pipe cleaners, Chi."

"Fuckin' kindergarten, man," Tran grumbled under his breath. Nevertheless in no time at all he had fashioned the letters for his name. He fixed the 'c' and 'h' together – 'they have to be together to make the right sound' he explained to Patrick as he did it – and even had an ingenious solution for adding the dot over the 'i'. When he finished both boys looked at the three letters lying on the table.

"Chi," Tran said to himself, running his fingers over the shapes as if seeing the letters properly for the first time. "Yeah, that's right, that's right, ch – ee, Chi." He cast a quizzical eye towards Patrick.

"The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog," Patrick grinned back. Tran rolled his eyes, then pulled a bunch of pipe cleaners towards himself.

Tran only needed a little help with the spellings and had made at least one of each letter of the alphabet by the end of the sentence. He grinned at Patrick and started rearranging letters.

bulshit

"What you're full of," Tran grinned.

Patrick laughed, twisted another 'l' and added it to the word.

"If you're gonna do that, I guess I should show you how to do it right," he grinned back. The boys spent the next half hour putting together swear words, then phrases, then entire sentences of expletive-ridden nonsense, though Patrick made sure it was grammatical nonsense. They kept their hoots of laughter as quiet as they could but clearly not quiet enough. Tran was completing a particularly scatological phrase when the bell rang for the elevator. Tran froze, Patrick only had time to sweep all the pipe cleaner letters onto the floor before the doors opened. Mrs. Leeming herself had come upstairs to check up on what they were doing and, unimpressed by their excuses, had coolly explained that the archive rooms were not a kindergarten. To Leeming's consternation they had laughed themselves silly at her unwitting echo of Tran's earlier words. She shooed them out, crossly telling them not to come back until they had learned to control themselves. The boys made it no further than the library steps, their sides aching and tears streaming down their cheeks, unable to talk but still communicating – still cussing at one another in fact, egging each other on – via the slightly-squashed pipe cleaner letters.

* * *

_Dear Dad,_

_I've done a little research on microphones and I took advantage of the good weather and Gimpy Bill's availability over the weekend to dig out and check over the tent canvas. It looks as though we will need replacement panels rather than patches. We can talk about that as well as the budget when I come to visit._

Alex hoped Paddy hadn't paid too much for Gimpy Bill's services. The man was strong as an ox but soft in the head. Something had happened the summer after Lily left, Paddy had been checking up on the guy occasionally ever since to make sure he was looking after himself. Alex didn't really care why so long as it didn't cost him anything. Alex hadn't expected they could patch the canvas this year, though it had been worth a shot. They bought their last canvas a while ago, the cheapest places had been around San Francisco marina but not after he added in gas and time. It would be someone else's gas and time now, though. Microphones might be cheaper in the big city, too.

_Everyone at Stoney Ridge says 'hi', Josh and Maria Barsocky especially wanted to send their best wishes and said it was fine to sign them up for letters and visits. Billy Ruskin said he would be prepared to give me a lift to come see you if no-one else was available, please could you add him to your list of contacts as well. Katy and Mick Turner are back from their honeymoon, they took the RV along the coast road from San Francisco down to San Luiz Obispo and back. They also sent their best wishes._

Paddy should have known Alex had already added Josh and his wife, Josh wasn't much of a writer but Maria had already sent him a long, gossipy letter about her daughter's wedding. He'd add the new boss to his list that afternoon.

_Freddie Snaps is letting me borrow his old busted Polaroid camera while I'm staying in town. It used to let light in down one side but not any more, thanks to the power of gaffer tape! It doesn't look pretty but it works. He had a few packets of out-of-date film stock that he let me have too, the pictures come out ok as you can see. I labelled the back of these photos because you don't know these people. There's one of me, Liss, Paul and Jenni – the four of us are being fostered by the Brodies. Another of me, Liss her friend Julia and my former girlfriend Ashley at school. The third is me with my other two new friends Chi and Andy out on the sports field. The last one is me on my own, that was taken at Chess Club by one of the kids there who is into photography after I beat their champion player in four moves._

The four foster kids were standing on an anonymous porch, the Brodies' place he assumed. Alex spent a while looking at the older girl, pretty enough to have caused Alex teenage-style problems at Paddy's age. Alex sighed. Thinking of her as a sister would be a solution to that problem but Paddy had never had a sister. Living like a family with a girl around his age wasn't anything like the same as babysitting or making friends. Paddy hadn't mentioned her again and Alex couldn't work out if that was good or bad. He wondered if she still reminded Paddy of that dressing room at the Majestic Theater in Saint Paul.

The next picture – Paddy surrounded by Liss and two other pretty girls, all pretending to kiss him as he stood in the middle beaming like the cat that got the cream – made him roll his eyes before he shook his head, chuckling. He checked out the names on the back then looked at the photo again: that must the girl Paddy took to test night, the girl over whom he had faced down Barton. Paddy hadn't mentioned that in his letter – Maria Barsocky hadn't witnessed it so her account of the incident was second-hand from Josh – and Alex was uneasy about that. He didn't want the boy to start thinking it was okay to keep secrets from him. No-one knew exactly what they had said to each other, which wouldn't help with the rumor mill. He had to give his son credit, though, he already had an eye for the ladies. Girls. Whatever.

The picture of Paddy with his male friends was also interesting. If Paddy had a talent for picking the pretty girls another talent was undoubtedly being able to surround himself with guys who looked as much like bodyguards as friends, guys like Pete Barsocky and the Schmidt boy, even Gimpy Bill, maybe. The two kids in the photo were both much taller than Paddy and one of them was built like a boxer or a wrestler as well. Finally on the photo of just himself Paddy was grinning widely and Alex shook his head again. When Patrick was in a photo with other kids he somehow didn't look so much like Maura as he did on his own. Again the pictures went onto the wall apart from the one of just Patrick.

_One of my friends from school can't read. I was with him in the arcade_

That was new, not something to be encouraged. The arcade was a much less desirable distraction than girls, in Alex's view. What could anyone learn from interacting with a goddamn video game? People, especially women, were their stock-in-trade, not screens and joysticks. Alex briefly wondered if it was the black kid or the Asian who couldn't read.

_I was with him in the arcade the other day and I tricked an older kid into beating me up. One of your foolproof insults worked! I ran, the kid and his pals chased me into a blind alley then my friend showed up and saved my hide. Why risk my hide in the first place, you may ask?_

Alex did ask. He – and others from the carnival as well – had had to step in to prevent his son being beaten up by townie kids a dozen times over the last two years, and those were just the times he knew about. Patrick was getting something of a reputation on the lot for provoking fights. Not for fighting though, the boy would run if he could but never fought back if running wasn't an option, he went down and stayed down to try to keep from being hurt too bad. The way Paddy behaved, it was as though it still came as a surprise to the boy how riled up other guys got at his smart mouth. Alex shook his head, he'd thought the boy was smarter than to deliberately provoke a fight. A black eye wasn't a good look whether doing their act or running a con. Alex regretted telling him the worst insults he could think of when Paddy had asked him one evening last summer. He wondered now how many of the other fights where he'd had to intervene had been provoked deliberately by the boy. Had his son been conning him into intervening all along? Conning his own father? Alex's expression soured, then hardened. Maybe next time he'd let the boy take his lumps, teach him a lesson.

_Why risk my hide in the first place, you may ask? Because I now have a bodyguard, at school anyway. Did I mention my friend is a big guy? Chi didn't have any friends before I turned up and was spending a lot of time in trouble at school. It took a while to gain his trust but now that I have he is a very loyal, very useful friend. In return I am teaching him to read and write._

That meant it was the big Asian kid. Ok, Alex could see now why Paddy had taken that risk. That was a good outcome, though Alex still thought the boy had been foolish. There was something inherently untrustworthy-looking about a kid who had been in a fight.

_I was thinking some more about the pursuit of excellence_

Again?

_I was thinking some more about the pursuit of excellence and how it can apply in our line of work. Excellence can't mean simply putting in more physical effort, or every manual laborer would be considered excellent. Our act is meant to seem effortless, at least in the parts that actually involve effort. How could we go about putting more effort in anyway?_

Good question, son. Alex didn't think Paddy would reach the same conclusion he had: 'don't bother trying'.

_I think it means being more effective rather than harder working. The effort surely happens beforehand, ensuring that the necessary skills and talents are sufficiently honed and perfected in advance so the performance itself becomes apparently effortless. I already had one good result from doing things like this, I pulled an awesome prank on someone by assembling a small team of people with the required level of the desired skills to pull it off. Again I shall tell you all about it when I see you. I think I finally understand your insistence on practice._

_Love,_

_Paddy_

Okay, thinking about excellence had gotten Paddy to agree with Alex about practice. That was good. A prank? Not entirely a waste of time, an elaborate prank that needed a team of specialists in order to work took some smarts and involved fooling people in a convincing manner. Alex supposed a con could be seen as a more grown-up version of a prank, one that included more than a cheap laugh as a payoff. Had Paddy spotted the similarities between pranks and cons? Probably, the kid wasn't dumb. Running that prank, telling Alex about it, was surely another hint that Patrick wanted more control over their cons. Dammit! Ignoring Paddy's new obsession with excellence hadn't discouraged the boy. Okay, okay, he could handle his own son, for chrissakes.

_Dear Paddy,_

_Thanks for your letter and the new photos, it's good to put faces to names. Next month's Amusement Business magazine arrived here yesterday, it was unexpected and very welcome, that was a good idea to change the delivery address while I'm inside. Remember to keep emptying the PO box at Stoney Ridge, you probably need to open any letters so you can tell me if anything needs my attention, keep them in the storage trailer afterwards. Next time you are up there please send a message to Lily via the CB. Be discrete but she should know what's happened to her big brother, we were thinking about heading down there this winter so she's expecting to hear from us._

_I find I need more than $15 a week. $25 would be better. You'll have to play with your budget a little._

_I'm glad you're doing research on spending for the act ahead of any buying decisions. San Francisco will be your friend here, canvas is cheaper in the chandlery stores that serve the marinas around the Bay, more competition for business I guess. Get Billy Ruskin to drive you over there sometime, you can try a wider range of microphones in the big city music stores over there than at Woodrups in Carson Springs. I already added Josh and Maria to my contact list, I'll add Billy Ruskin too. I hope you don't owe Freddie Snaps anything for the camera, he's not a man I'd want to cross nor be obligated to._

_Don't get into fights. It draws official attention to yourself and no adult will believe a kid is trustworthy if he's got a black eye, all they'll see is a troublemaker. Keep out of the arcades too, those machines eat up too much time and money. I hope you are still practicing for the act, not just theorizing about it. I'm glad something has persuaded you that practicing is worthwhile but I'll say this about excellence Paddy, there's no excellence in business if it doesn't improve the bottom line. Excellence doesn't pay the bills, consistency of performance does._

_Love,_

_Dad._

Alex was particularly proud of 'consistency of performance' as a way to re-define 'good enough'. Paddy had been way too dismissive about 'good enough' for Alex's liking.


	19. Chapter 19

"Hey, Patrick, is it true your dad's in prison?" Patrick Jane was in art class, sitting at a table with Andy and Tran and working on his table decoration when Abigail the Cat Alphabet Girl walked past.

"Who told you that?"

"My friend Kim Napier from my table. Is it true?"

"What did she say?"

"She heard he was a thief and he was in prison."

"Where did she hear it?" Patrick asked, curious.

"Oh, just around," Abigail replied though her eyes treacherously flickered towards the Jockabees table. Rico again. He wasn't confronting Patrick directly any more but clearly Ashley's rebuttal of Rico's previous gossip had reached his ears and the guy was filling in the gaps with whatever he could make up. Patrick grinned. Two could play at that game. He had already formulated a strategy for dealing with gossip about his dad and Rico was inadvertently assisting. Still smiling he addressed Abigail.

"What's your name, Abigail? Your full name, I mean." Patrick couldn't keep thinking of her as 'Abigail the Cat Alphabet Girl'.

She only hesitated for a second. "Abby Marie Rizzi."

"Abby Marie. I like it. Are you an only child, Abby?"

"No, I'm in the middle. My older brother Ricky is in high school, Sophie my kid sister is still at Carson Springs Elementary."

"There's just me," Patrick answered her unspoken question. "I don't have any brothers or sisters and, well, Kim's right about my dad. He is in prison. He's a pirate."

Andy Williams make a small noise beside him, halfway between a snort and a choke. Abigail's eyebrows shot up.

"He is not!" she was laughing.

"I guess you could call it theft," Patrick replied thoughtfully, eyes twinkling, "but he stole from rich people on yachts and it happened at sea. They said it was the first case of piracy in California for over a hundred years. He was in the paper last week."

"I don't believe you." Abigail's face was full of suspicion.

"He wasn't a very _good_ pirate," Patrick admitted. "After all, they caught him. He didn't fly a black flag with a skull and crossed bones on it or anything."

Abigail looked him up and down for a moment, amusement in her eyes, then simply said 'Huh' in a surprised tone and walked back to her table. She glanced in his direction again when she sat.

"She likes me," Patrick announced to Andy and Tran.

"Where did that come from, Patrick?" Andy managed. "I thought it was something to do with bad investments and the stock market crash."

"How do you know she likes you?" Tran asked.

"I could see it in her eyes, the way she looked at me," Patrick replied to Tran, then grinned at Andy. "I think I'll ask Abby Rizzi to be my next girlfriend. What girl wouldn't want to go on a date with the son of a pirate?"

Later in the lunch hall Patrick spotted Abigail sitting with Stacey and Kim while he was still in the line.

"I'll catch you up," he muttered as Andy and Tran went to find a seat then made for Abigail's table.

"Hi ladies," he began, looking only at Abigail as he said it. "May I sit here?"

Stacey giggled nervously, Kim said 'okay' but he remained standing until Abigail shrugged and said 'sure' a fraction later. He gracefully sat without taking his eyes off her.

"So, Abby, why did you ask about my dad at the start of art class?" Patrick looked amused though he kept up his scrutiny of Abigail. She didn't blush or look uncomfortable at all under his gaze. He could see Stacey and Kim exchanging an uncertain glance out of the corner of his eye.

"I hate gossip," Abigail stated without hesitation. "People should know what's being said about them. I always ask a person directly, if I can."

"It happened to you, didn't it," Patrick began. It wasn't a question. "People changed how they behaved towards you and you even lost some friends, but you didn't know why until much later when someone finally told you what everyone had been saying about you."

Now Stacey and Kim were looking from Abigail to Patrick and back. Abigail's eyes widened as he spoke then she nodded.

"At elementary school." She didn't tell him any more but couldn't stop herself from looking him up and down again. It was only a flicker but Patrick saw her do it.

"Thank you, Abby, for being so honest with me. And for asking me about it earlier rather than spreading gossip." Patrick continued to hold her gaze and she continued not to look away. Patrick thought Abigail wouldn't appreciate the subtle guiding and taking charge he had used on Ashley. Abby was a strong-minded girl who liked to know where she stood. He smiled. "That's the third time you've been kind to me. And I think you're very pretty. Do you have a boyfriend at the moment?"

Abigail eyed him in silence for a moment as, in the background, he caught Kim and Stacey exchanging another significant look.

"Yes."

"May I ask who the lucky guy is?"

"Kim's Big brother David. He's on the basketball team. Your friend Andy Williams knows him." Still Abigail wasn't blushing or looking uncomfortable. She maintained eye contact but her eyes had flickered over him again. She had a boyfriend but was looking nevertheless…

"A jock," Patrick nodded. She couldn't deny that's what he was but he could see Abigail didn't like him thinking she was the kind of girl who went for jocks.

"I knew him long before he was a jock."

Patrick smiled. "Of course, he's your friend's brother. I just wish we had met before you started dating him, Abby. I hope he treats you like he should." Patrick broke eye contact, made as if to leave.

"And how is that, Patrick?"

Patrick looked back at her. Abigail was good at this, he liked that nothing he'd said or done so far had ruffled her composure, he loved a challenge. She'd be expecting him to say 'like a queen' or some other such nonsense.

"A gentleman should always treat a lady... exactly how she wants to be treated," he replied enigmatically and was gratified to see surprise and curiosity in her eyes. Watch out, David, he thought. In the periphery of his vision Patrick saw someone coming over. He assumed it was David, it was a big guy anyway and he'd got up from the jocks' table. As a parting shot Patrick added, "Not treat her as though she's his possession." He broke eye contact, picked up his tray, nodded a polite 'Ladies' to all three of them and slipped away – but not so fast that Patrick failed to catch the first thing out of the guy's mouth.

"What did he want..." The boy sounded sullen, not the right tone to take with Abigail if Patrick was any judge, certainly not when someone had just put the idea into her head that her boyfriend thought he owned her. He smiled as he sat down with the New Gang.

"Did she say yes?" Andy Williams asked, sounding once again as though he was in awe of Patrick's confidence with girls.

"She already has a boyfriend," Patrick replied, adding with a grin, "for now, anyway. You even know the guy, David Napier."

"Oh yeah, he's on the team, plays center. She _is_ his girlfriend, kinda. I forgot. I mean, she is, he asked her weeks ago, but she doesn't hang out with the team all the time like the other girls. I mean, most of the other girlfriends are cheerleaders and she's, uh, not. Not that she's ugly or anything!" Andy was blushing, getting flustered at the looks his words were drawing from Liss and Julia. "She's a brainy kid, she's on the school quiz team, I think David's sister knows her or something, that's how come he asked her."

"Yeah, he's her friend Kim's big brother," Patrick replied. What's he like?" he added casually.

"Pretty good, I mean he's no Bill Russell but he's a big guy, good at shooting, good at defending."

"I think Trick here meant what's he like as a person, not a basketball player," Liss grinned. Even Patrick laughed at the nickname Liss had remembered from last week.

"Trick, yeah, that suits you, man!" Tran was first to comment.

"Yeah, dude, that's an awesome nickname!" Andy was enthusiastic about it too, glad something had diverted everyone's attention from himself, no doubt. Liss smiled smugly.

"Attending the pool hall New Years party, Mr. And Mrs. Shot and their gifted son, Trick!" Julia managed before collapsing in giggles. Okay, Patrick was going to be stuck with this one. As nicknames went it wasn't the worst. Actually it was pretty cool.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your support," Patrick began in his best 'Bob Hope' voice. "If I ever need help I now know who _not_ to ask." He waited for their laughter to die down before continuing. "So... David Napier. What's he like?"

"David? He's, uh, he's not the team captain."

"Off the court, Andy," Patrick grinned.

"Nah, what I mean is during basketball games he's on court for a lot of the time, he would be a good captain in theory but Coach Brennon made Jimmy Adams the captain, not David. He's, uh, he's a good solid team player but he's not captain material. A follower, not a leader."

"Kinda conventional in his outlook?"

"Yeah. Conventional. That's a good way to describe him. He doesn't rock the boat."

"And how about his girlfriends?"

"Well he only had the one. He was the last guy on the team to get a girlfriend this year, all the team got a girl now except – except me. Uh. I remember him telling Jimmy that it was wrong to cheat on a girl."

"Jimmy cheated on his girlfriend?" Julia seemed outraged. Adams... Patrick wondered if he was her brother. He didn't know anything about Julia's family.

"Is Jimmy a relative?" Patrick asked.

"My cousin," she confirmed, "and I know Lizzy Duke, too, so does his momma." Julia looked angry.

"Nah, this was a while ago, before Jimmy started dating Lizzy," Andy said quickly.

"Still, David's attitude is better," Patrick approved, as much mindful that they were at a table with three girls listening to their every word as applauding David. "And you don't have to worry about getting a girlfriend, Andy, you're a year younger than those other guys, you don't have to rush into anything." Patrick flashed him a grin.

"Yeah," Andy replied gloomily, "that's just what my mom says." To Patrick's surprise Andy then glanced at Ashley. Patrick glanced at her, too. She hadn't participated in the conversation at all, instead she was gazing into the distance and looked... a little put out. About the attitude of the basketball team? Patrick didn't think so, more likely about him wanting to date someone else. Well, she had no right to be. It was her mom who split them up. It had been a week. Did she expect him to, what, pine over her? He liked having girlfriends. She should... His mind shifted up a gear before he even completed that thought. She should find a nice kid that her momma approved of, someone on a school sports team, perhaps. A kid who didn't get detentions, who had a stable home with a mom and a dad, who liked her and who needed to find a girlfriend so he didn't get ribbed any more by his fellow-teammates, maybe. He didn't think Andy had had a girlfriend before, he wasn't good at talking to girls... He parked up that train of thought for later and turned his attention back to grilling Andy.

"Would you say he likes girls with opinions, feminists? David, I mean, I can't imagine Jimmy does."

"I don't know, man." Andy was looking increasingly uncomfortable about the whole conversation. "I don't think any of the guys think about it much. You're on the team, you have a girlfriend. The guys talk about how girls look, not how they think. Sorry," Andy added to Liss, Julia and Ashley, looking embarrassed. "There's always plenty of girls who want to date guys on the team." Andy explained unhappily. That surprised Patrick until he remembered Andy had felt the same way about guys who only wanted to be friends because he was a jock.

"So... Not the jealous type, David I mean?"

"I dunno, man."

"That him? That big guy over with Abigail?"

"Yeah, that's David."

They were arguing, or at least Abigail was telling David off about something. Why had a smart girl wanted to go out with a jock? Then again girls got crushes on the weirdest guys. Patrick could spot it happening but he hadn't ever been able to explain it. David was her friend's big brother, maybe that had been enough. Abigail was confident and smart, the leader of her little group of friends whereas David was a follower not a leader, conventional. He had been happier asking his little sister's friend for a date rather than one of the girls who liked to date jocks. Was Abby getting bored with David? Patrick was sure she had checked him out. "Interesting," was all he said.

* * *

Patrick's heart sank when he saw Ms. Portman waiting for him outside her classroom as he rounded the corner of the hall that afternoon to keep his usual pre-class appointment. Even from here he could see her sour expression. Usually he had to wait outside for her while her previous class cleared the room. He guessed she was less than happy about his test and sure enough, as soon as she spotted him she lifted her hand to reveal a familiar piece of paper as he walked up to her.

"What is this, Patrick? I thought we had a deal!"

"What grade did I get, ma'am?" Patrick replied curiously.

"You failed, Patrick, by a long way. Twelve percent! Twelve! And half of those marks were for penmanship! The pass mark is thirty-five percent so that's an 'F', Patrick, a fail. You were supposed to pass this!" Portman hissed.

"It's no big deal, we just carry on with the same arrangement. I'll meet you here to get assignments and spend your classes in the library unless you're doing assessments," Patrick shrugged.

"No big deal? I signed your damn permission letter because it was _temporary! _A few days of letting you skip class before – before you moved up! I could get in trouble if it goes on for a whole year!" Portman was trying to whisper and shout at the same time, angry but aware of the ears that might be listening.

Patrick had never come across anything like that before and was fascinated. It seemed to concentrate her fury, having to restrain herself like this. His dad, Lily, neither cared if people heard or it attracted an audience. Patrick had never imagined that he might ever feel grateful about that. Portman was clearly an amateur when it came to anger but this was effective, he would hate to see Lily or his dad be angry in this hissing, concentrated manner. Patrick realized Portman was waiting for him to speak. He ran over her words in his head: he was sure Portman had stumbled over 'before' because she had been thinking 'before I got rid of you'.

"I don't see how you could get into trouble, ma'am. You mark the class register after you see me so it'll agree with the registration from home room. You get to mark my homework and tests, same as every other student in class. I spend the time in the library, I'm not out causing trouble." Portman still looked uneasy so he added, "You, uh, you're not the only teacher who's made this kind of arrangement with me."

"I'm not? Who else? Liz Jepson?"

"Why did you say her?"

"She gave you that crazy year-long hall pass –"

"Not Ms. Jepson. I don't have her for science."

"Who then?" she asked again.

Patrick eyed Portman in disbelief.

"Would you like me to tell them about my agreement with you?" He watched her eyes widen. "Didn't think so. I can keep quiet about it. So can you."

"But – but –" Portman couldn't voice exactly where her objection lay.

"Look, you don't want me in your classroom. I don't want to be there. It's not that hard."

"You failed this test deliberately!" Portman sounded as though she had only just realized. Patrick eyed her calmly.

"I haven't taken a test in over two years, ma'am, I've been home schooled since I left elementary. I must have panicked."

"I don't believe you. No-one who's ever taught you is going to believe that."

"But no-one else will bat an eyelid. I'm just another kid in care who failed a test. That isn't news_._ It sure as hell isn't gonna get anyone wondering what's happening in your classes."

"Oh! You have to come to my class, Patrick." Portman didn't look happy about this new thing that had come to mind. "I have to give you extra tuition so you catch up. There's paperwork that goes with it, uh, it has to appear on your next report card."

"Extra tuition during regular class?" Patrick remembered Smith had said something similar about math.

"Yes, and filling in... Well, it's something like a special register. I have to document the tuition, anyway."

Patrick looked exasperated – why couldn't she just fill it in without his participation? – then his eyes turned calculating. "I'll do my 'catching up' in the library, thanks all the same. Why don't you give my extra tuition to Chi Tran and pretend it's me?"

"Tran? You mean the other seventh grader?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Well, no, I suppose–"

"Okay, then," Patrick said as the bell started ringing.

* * *

By the end of Monday the rumors about Alex Jane had reached fever pitch. Patrick's dad had been convicted of piracy, art theft, jewel theft; of robbing a yacht, a mansion, a casino; the guy he stole from was a mobster, an actor, a millionaire; Alex was a thief, a con-man, a cat burglar, a safe cracker. He tweaked the story at every opportunity or simply refused to acknowledge or deny the truth of anything, stoking the flames still further.

"You're enjoying this," Andy said on the way out of school.

"Hell yeah," Patrick grinned back.

* * *

_Dear Dad,_

_It was great to get your phone call, I guess Mr. Taylor gave you Brodie's phone number? I keep forgetting I live in a house with a telephone. I was going to write how weird it was hearing your voice like that, but actually what has been weird these last few weeks has been not hearing it._

Alex blinked a few times at that. He thought he had heard it in Paddy's voice but it was something else for the kid to write it down like that. Alex had also felt more moved than he liked to admit when he heard his son's voice on the phone. Paddy drove him to distraction sometimes but it wasn't until he called his son a few days ago that he realized how much he missed the boy. Paddy never shut up but Alex was missing even his chatter. At least the boy was smart. Alex had little patience with fools and Thomson, his new cellmate, was a fool.

_I shall bring $110 with me when I visit. We may not be able to afford $25 a week for the whole time you're in prison but I can try to get the big items under budget this winter. There is money to be saved on costumes, for example, if we go for tuxedos rather than having something made. There are usually good pickings in the Sacramento goodwill after New Year._

Alex hadn't even thought about spending on costumes. He had that new suit he'd worn in court which was pretty lightweight fabric, so long as it wasn't a hot summer that might see him through next season. Tuxedos from the goodwill wasn't a bad idea either.

_I don't have much news from Stoney Ridge. It was around a year ago that Danny Ruskin got his first set of picks, he thinks he has enough material now for a turn, if not a whole act. He is trying to get Pops to find someone who could give him a five-minute slot. I already told him we couldn't take him on next season. There is one thing: Billy Ruskin thinks he'll be taking the show up into Oregon and Washingon for around three weeks next summer, we won't be able to follow them. _

Yeah, three weeks of dead time at the height of the season unless Alex could think of some way to make money during that time. He'd have to ask the boy to get the exact dates from Billy Ruskin before he could make any firm plans.

_I've been wondering how to measure excellence_

More goddamn excellence? Still? At least Alex didn't have to write back this time, the boy would be visiting before he'd get a letter now. Measure excellence! Okay, Paddy, how exactly are you gonna do that? They don't sell that kind of slide rule in Wal-Mart.

_I've been wondering how to measure excellence. As you pointed out, the bottom line is key. Does that mean we don't try so hard when the work is less lucrative?_

Hell yeah, that's exactly what it means, son!

_Does that mean we don't try so hard when the work is less lucrative? I think instead we should make sure the work is always lucrative enough to make us want to work to the best of our ability._

Wait, what? Alex had to read that again. Was Paddy talking about choosing the cons again?

_In order to measure excellence we need to know what excellence looks like, though I think it would be a mistake to be too rigid in trying to pin down a definition of excellence when it comes to the act. We both know what a good performance feels like, or a poor one for that matter. I think excellence for the act means making sure our good performances get better, mediocre ones become good and we give fewer or no poor performances. The measure of excellence must surely be how much the act improves. I would suggest 'good enough' becomes a phrase we only ever apply to our earnings, not our performance._

That sounded to Alex more like the law of diminishing returns rather than a recipe for excellence. The psychic act usually made enough to get by. The cons were Alex's gateway to life's little pleasures. He knew a handful of reliable cons and had a good eye for spotting marks. They didn't need more, although...

The truth was that _he_ didn't need more. Now the boy was getting a bit older he'd want some spending money in his pocket, more than the odd fifty he slipped to his son every now and then. Although he'd given Paddy a hundred after that 'magic rock' stunt...

Alex had made ten grand that day. A hundred dollars was only one percent. Alex had felt he'd been more than generous at the time but what had Paddy thought? Cash was usually divided equally whenever Alex worked a con with a team and the boy knew that. Paddy was only a kid, he couldn't expect an equal share but one percent now seemed a little thin even to Alex. Had that been a mistake? Could Alex have screwed his future because he hadn't bothered to think in terms of percentages in the past?

Maybe – Alex grimaced involuntarily – maybe sharing some of the income from now on would be a good way to keep Paddy working the double act for an extra few years after the kid turned eighteen. Yeah, that had worked with Lily, it could work with Paddy, though the boy would have to earn it if he was gonna spend it. They weren't earning enough for both of them to take cash out of the business, not the sort of cash Alex liked to take. Maybe that was the reason behind Paddy's new-found obsession with excellence.

_I think I can see a way forward. Planning ahead means that we can smoothly handle screw ups. Remember when the microphone failed in that place just outside Milwaukee? As the second mike was in a known location near the stage it took us less than ten seconds to replace it and continue with the act as if nothing had gone wrong. If it had been shut away somewhere in the storage trailer instead that performance would have been over before it began._

Alex did remember. That old mic had been causing trouble during rehearsals that day and although it had seemed to clear up Alex hadn't trusted it. In a flash of inspiration he'd dug the big heavy old mic out of storage and left it by the side of the stage. Paddy had made the smoothest changeover to the replacement mic and the show had continued without further incident. More forward planning along those kinds of lines might not be the worst idea the boy ever had.

_Making sure we have enough of the right kind of well-rehearsed back-up plans can be one way to measure excellence. For example, If one of us feels the act is a little off at any time we could use a trigger code word to shift into a second string. We could even each have a back-up solo third string in the event of a serious problem (say one of us is taken ill or otherwise incapacitated during a performance)._

Having a whole backup performance was something Alex had never thought of. Having _solo_ backup performances sounded ominous, as though that scheming little runt wanted to rehearse his new solo act right under Alex's nose on the pretext of it being a _backup plan_. That wasn't going to happen.

_The other thing we can do is to take a moment, say when we're driving to the next showground, to talk about what went well, what went badly, see if we are still doing things simply because we always have. The way to excellence is surely through constant improvement and you taught me that there is always a way to improve if we look hard enough._

_Love, _

_Paddy_

What the hell? This wasn't a good idea. They often did talk about the act in the RV between showgrounds. Generally it involved Alex pointing out where the boy needed to do better. It sounded like that cocky little jerk wanted to give Alex marks out of ten now. He'd often told Paddy there was always a way to improve if he looked hard enough for it. Was that going to bite him on the ass now, too? Paddy was the child, he was the one who needed to improve, not Alex! Goddammit, when he said he'd think about the new act this wasn't what he'd meant!

* * *

Brodie was again taking Patrick to visit his dad in prison. Patrick had gotten Brodie talking in the car in an attempt to avoid Brodie's questions as much as wanting to hear what Brodie had to say. Brodie had now accompanied Patrick to several poker games at Taylor's house and Patrick was usually prepared to explain carny or poker jargon to him these days when he asked, but not today.

Patrick learned that the Brodies stayed in touch with many of their former foster kids after they had grown up and left home. They all had standing invitations at Thanksgiving: Sally would be cooking turkey dinner for twelve adults and eight kids this year. Their daughter's family would be visiting her husband's folks in Idaho but their son would be coming to Carson Springs with his wife and daughter. The others guests were former foster children and their families plus one old lady from their church. Sally was fully occupied this weekend preparing for Thursday, filling the freezer with baked goods and side dishes. The Ng kids were helping Sally, Liss was over at Julia's and Brodie confessed to being glad he had an excuse to get out of the house for a few hours today.

They turned through the security gate into the prison car park. Volano penitentiary was huge and ugly. Squat, functional buildings were spread widely as far as the eye could see. Surrounding all was a double ring of high chain link fencing that seemed to stretch to the horizon. Watchtowers were sited at intervals along the no-man's-land between. It was intimidating and it was meant to be.

Patrick wasn't sure exactly how he felt about going to visit his dad after the last time. He did want to see Alex, there were some things he could talk about with no-one else. His dad's absence had left a huge gap in Patrick's life. The unexpected phone call last week had been an emotional reminder of how abnormal his life now was and had left him feeling something like homesickness. Even an afternoon at the Ruskin's place watching a movie with his old gang hadn't fully cured it. A lot had happened in a few short weeks and it was surprisingly unsettling to think that his dad had had no part in any of it.

"Anything you feel you should leave in the car this time, Patrick?" Brodie cut through his thoughts.

"Uh, yes, sir." Patrick emptied his pockets, returning the money but wrapping everything else away tidily in his roll of lock picks before putting it in the glove box. Now he had nothing metal on his person except some genuine small change and the buckle of his belt. He would have to put both into a tray when he walked through the metal detector, according to the pamphlet about prison rules Taylor had sent him. He would also be searched for non-metallic contraband. He wasn't looking forward to that. Nevertheless Patrick nodded over towards Brodie and said, "Okay, now I'm ready."

It was minors visiting day. There were quite a few kids in the line, some youngsters although the majority were older than Patrick. They joined the back of the line, Patrick idly watching the security procedure at the front. Every few minutes a recorded voice announced female visitors and minors could choose to be searched by a female prison officer.

After watching for several minutes Patrick was sure he didn't like the way the guy on the right frisked the older boys, he seemed unnecessarily thorough compared to his colleague. Occasionally a visitor would be led into a side room, presumably for privacy during a more intimate search. Patrick really didn't like the idea of that happening to him. As they approached the front of the line Patrick turned to Brodie and spoke very quietly.

"Mr. Brodie? Is it okay if I want to be searched by the female prison officer?"

"Sure, Patrick, that's what the announcement says. I'll wait for you on the other side."

Patrick approached the woman with trepidation. She didn't smile, was swift, professional and surprisingly polite. Brodie was only a few steps away and had watched the whole process with something like amusement.

"You never been frisked at an airport, Patrick?" Brodie asked.

"I've never flown anywhere, sir. They do that at airports, too?"

"Not every passenger and not so much on internal flights but I've certainly been searched on international flights. They're keen on it in European airports."

"They searched you?" Patrick grinned. He couldn't imagine it, Brodie was so straight-edge.

"I have a metal pin in my shoulder, broke my collarbone when I was a kid. It doesn't usually set off the detectors in the US but I guess the ones in Europe are set up to be more sensitive. I've been frisked a few times," Brodie smiled back.

"You been to Europe a lot?"

"I did go quite a few times with my job a few years ago, London and Frankfurt. My company was expanding it's presence in Europe at the time and I was helping with that."

They had reached the visiting area now. It was similar to the one in County, though much larger. Prisoners and their visitors sat in a big room with metal tables and benches bolted to the floor, more crowded than Carson Springs County Jail though not completely full. An anteroom contained vending machines and was available to visitors only. Alex was again waiting for them. He stood when he saw them in the doorway and waved them over.

Patrick eyed him a little warily but Alex seemed genuinely pleased to see him. He hugged Patrick spontaneously in a way he hadn't in years. Maybe absence really did make the heart grow fonder. Patrick smiled at that, hugging his dad back: he had of late entertained the notion that Alex didn't have a heart. Alex beamed at Patrick for a long moment when they broke apart.

"It really is good to see you, Paddy. Have you grown a little bit? You seem taller. Thanks for the letters, and the photos. And for getting the magazines sent here." Alex turned to Brodie, warmly shaking his hand. "Thanks for bringing Paddy to see me again. Would you, uh, like to sit down?"

Brodie smiled too, he couldn't help it. Alex in a happy mood made you feel good about yourself. Patrick knew it was a large part of his dad's charm, part of what made him a good con-man.

"Wouldn't you prefer some time alone to chat with Patrick? I'm sure you have plenty of catching up to do and you don't want me being Mr. Butinski. I'll head over to the vending machines. Can I get you something?"

"Thanks, Mr. Brodie," Patrick smiled as Brodie took their orders and headed out. Patrick sat but Alex remained standing for a moment, grinning at his son, before he sat too.

"You sure are a sight for sore eyes, Paddy," Alex began in a much quieter voice. "This place, it's better than County but there's no-one here to really talk to. My cellie's okay, that guy called Thomson I told you about on the phone, small-time burglar, but he's dumb as a brick, not a great conversationalist. I'm trying to teach him pickpocketing but he really is clumsy as an ox."

They both snorted a brief laugh. It was the phrase Alex had used to criticise Patrick when he was teaching him to pickpocket, right up to the day Patrick had quietly and competently emptied all of Alex's pockets, twice, just to prove the first time wasn't a fluke. "I wanted to tell you off about pursuing _excellence_, for chrissakes, but now you're here I haven't the heart, Paddy, it's just too good seeing you, having a real person to talk to. I guess prison's turning me into a sap." Alex was still grinning.

"It's good to see you, too, dad. I had a bunch of questions–"

"Yeah, I know you do, but first things first. Good job on my commissary account, the money order came just when I needed it but like I wrote, I need more. I guess you sent sixty because of what I said over at County? Twenty-five a week would be better here in the state pen."

"I don't think we can afford that right through until–"

"Get the canvas cheaper, get the mics cheaper. That quote from Lewis in Sacramento? You can do better than that. Go to San Francisco marina, you'll find a better deal there if you shop around. Same with the microphones, you'll find them cheaper at one of the music stores over there. Find a slightly older model, one that's just been superseded, and haggle. Or find someone that's going out of business, there's just been a stock market crash, there'll be someone who needs to sell their stock off fast. You can find another two-fifty, three hundred bucks easy."

"It'll leave us with almost no safety net at the start of the season. If something breaks–"

"We'll cope, son. We're adaptable. Once we're earning–"

"We have to stay in California next season, Dad, because of your parole, and you always said California wasn't the place for, um, outside earnings. Billy Ruskin's carnival is going out of state for four weeks now, eighteenth July thru fifteenth August. You can't break your parole conditions, It'll be dead time unless we think of something–"

"I thought of something," Alex interrupted, grinning. "I'm still working out the details but we got the tent, we got the staging, all we need is different set-dressing and some new music which you can get for me, Paddy. We'll pull the sky grifter stunt. The twist is faith healing. It's real big on the TV they let us watch here. There's no overheads, no organizing committee to pay fifty percent of the gross, we'll have to do our own signage and hand bills but the tip's a shoo-in and they _want_ to pay up when we hand a collection plate around. We run 'faith healing' twice a night, only stay two days in every stop. I even got a rough itinerary. Small towns but not too small, where the Sheriff or the Mayor's a God-fearing man so permits won't be a problem."

"Preaching and healing?" Patrick said uncertainly.

"No magic crystals," Alex grinned knowingly, "just laying hands on their heads and praying. People don't expect _us_ to heal them, we say it's their faith that does the trick. Shit, Paddy, they charge ten bucks a time just to mention your name on the TV, not even to pray properly for ya like in a church, just for some grinning asshole to read out your goddamn name. There's no law against it, parole officers like it when you get religion and it's easy money. What's not to like? Not afraid of thunderbolts from the sky, are ya, son?"

"No, dad, no thunderbolts." Patrick gave a small smile. "We can call the tent a 'tabernacle', that's a word from the bible for a religious tent."

"That's my boy! You got a good idea there!"

Patrick pressed on. "I think we should keep it spiritual without doing it revival-style. We could take some holy words from gurus in India and Buddhism as well as the bible and, I dunno, karma? Whatever else is out there, anyway. I can do some research in the library, send you some notes. There's a lot of 'age of Aquarius' types around California these days that won't go near a Christian revival tent but who'd come to a spiritual show like that. If you call it a show not a church service you can charge admission as well as having a ding for donations, get some guaranteed income. How about direct sales, too? A tape of the show, the preaching anyway. Some branded trash for souvenirs, maybe even some magic crystals," Patrick added with a wry smile. "Gives us a second ding."

"Is this in pursuit of excellence, Paddy?" Alex sounds amused rather than annoyed.

"No need to be sloppy about it if a little research and preparation beforehand will make it tight," Patrick replied with a slight frown.

"You sayin' I'm sloppy, boy?" Patrick knew that voice, seemingly amicable but with an undertone of menace. Usually at this point Patrick would back down. Alex would be expecting him to. He had to frame this next bit carefully.

"Absolutely not, sir. You're the one who taught me there's nothing so useful as being prepared, even if it's just being prepared to run if you have to."

"Huh," Alex grunted. He did say that to the boy, to make sure he kept up with practice. Although now he thought about it, he hadn't said it in a while, the boy did practice, even before all this bullshit about excellence.

Patrick took this as a sign that Alex hadn't noticed he wasn't completely capitulating. He wanted to learn exactly how much control his dad was willing to concede. Not much, he guessed, but he wanted to know for sure. It would make a big difference to how he approached, well, everything in the future.

"At the end of last season you were talking about updating the 'Boy Wonder' act so we answer written questions from the audience. It's a natural evolution for the act now I'm getting older, you said so yourself. I know when you were arrested you said we wouldn't do that now – but why not? You were gonna look at our current act anyway while you're in here. The code is much the same even if the way we use it is more complicated for questions than objects. I can get up to speed once you get out. Saying the marks' names, knowing their questions, giving 'psychic' answers, that's a more impressive act than identifying things they pull out from their pockets and it ties in with a general spiritual experience. We would just have to add in preaching and so on for the four weeks when we're on our own."

"You think you can pick up a whole new angle on the code in a day or two?" Alex didn't quite sneer at his son. Patrick ignored his tone.

"I'm sure of it, dad. I can start learning the changes sooner if you can talk me through them during visits. They, uh, they'll return any letters that mention a code, the rules said." Alex remained silent. "I'm quicker than that guy Thomson that you mentioned on the phone," Patrick added.

"A fuckin' rock's quicker than Thomson." Alex paused again in thought. The boy was getting as bad as Lily at making him re-think himself. It was as he'd feared, Patrick seemed determined to change Alex's cozy little world. Patrick's ideas would probably involve more effort than Alex had put into anything in a long time. On the other hand, Alex needed to do something, he was already going stir-crazy in here and it was true, he had planned to make those sorts of changes to the act next year before he'd been arrested. "Okay. I can see the benefits. I'll start working on that kind of act."

"You should do the preaching, too. Adults will take that kind of thing better from another adult. You got a good line with the 'reformed sinner' story, just add something about 'many paths to god' or whatever and you're good to go."

Alex frowned, displeased. "You telling me how to run the act, now, Paddy? I don't want to be reminding people I did time," he growled. There's the other shoe, Patrick thought, smoothly changing his approach.

"You were on TV, dad, in all the papers in California because of what the governor said. People will remember your face, your name. You don't want that happening at an awkward moment. It's better to confess up-front. Tell them that it took sinking to this lowest point before you found the, uh, 'spiritual humility' that provided your 'gateway to the infinite' or something." Patrick pronounced the words with heavy irony. "Say that your motivation is helping people to attain the same spiritual heights without having to plumb the same depths. The admission charge covers our costs, donations are needed if we're to expand the good work." When Alex said nothing Patrick continued, "Saying it up-front is the obvious way to play this. It gets your retaliation in first. Anyone points the finger at you after that, they'll be the ones who look bad. C'mon, dad, you know 'repentant sinner' is a good story!"

Alex reluctantly agreed with his son but he wasn't happy about it.

"Yeah, I'm repentant all right, I'm never gonna try to swindle marks like that again. Too damn easy to get caught." Alex looked thoughtful again. "Yeah, it is a good story. I forgot we went into that much detail when we talked about changing the act for next season. You sure you're up to doing it? You won't have long to learn anything new."

"Why don't you be the judge of that, dad? We still have the old act. We can rehearse both when you get out and you can start us off small if you think I'm not up to it, maybe only introducing one or two questions to answer at the end of the old act."

"Huh." Alex thought that was another good idea.

"You said it yourself, short pants don't look so good on a kid who needs to shave." Patrick didn't like the look on his dad's face so he hurriedly continued. "We'd need to move the act on anyway, next season or the one after. I'm gonna start looking my age sooner or later, maybe you're right and I've started getting taller already since your arrest. My voice is gonna break and we don't have any control over when that happens. We want to be ahead of all that, not having to scramble to catch up." Alex couldn't stop a grimace appearing on his face for a fraction of a second when his son mentioned his voice. It had been his biggest fear last season, overnight being stuck with a kid who couldn't be a 'Boy Wonder' any more.

Paddy was waiting for Alex to speak now but he'd derailed Alex's train of thought.

"Go on, I'm listening," he managed.

"I'll be getting new costumes anyway for next season, why not be more grown-up looking to reflect the change in the act? 'Boy' doesn't have to mean 'little kid', dad, it can still apply to teenagers, even young adults If it's done right. It's the attitude, not the costumes, that'll stretch out the 'Boy Wonder' stage name until I'm twenty-one."

Alex nodded thoughtfully. He now knew that Paddy had been thinking about their future, too. Damn. "I get final say about what we do. There's some good ideas you got, Paddy, but they're not a working act."

"Of course, dad. You're the showman, after all."

Alex was thinking so Patrick let him, not interrupting as his dad worked on fitting Patrick's suggestions into his worldview. Finally Alex looked at Patrick.

"Okay, Paddy, your questions."

"That theatre gig we did in Saint Paul."

"Ha, yeah, thanks for reminding me, Paddy, that's a sweet memory to play with in the long dark nights. I'm not going to be seeing a real woman again until I get outta here."

"How did you deal with it? At the time, I mean. All those dancers it – it didn't faze you at the time."

"We were working, Paddy," Alex replied, looking at his son curiously. "You weren't fazed either." Alex grinned. It wasn't a euphemism he'd used before and it seemed quaint to him.

"No, sir, but…"

"You been, uh, _fazed_ by girls since then?" Alex teased. Paddy wasn't usually this coy. "This foster girl who's in the same house, is she _fazing_ your ass, maybe? That what got ya thinking about those dancing girls from Saint Paul?"

Patrick nodded. "I think I worked it out. It's because I'm not expecting her. I wasn't fazed by any of my girlfriends, well, not so much, and I think – I think that's because I'm expecting them to turn me on, I'm prepared for it to happen, that's why it never gets too bad. It isn't that Liss is pretty, she catches me unawares. I mean, she isn't ugly, I'm sure other boys think she's okay but I'm trying to think of her as a sister and you don't think of your relatives in that way."

"Can you do that, Paddy? Act like she's your sister? I thought it might help but you never had – I mean you're an only child."

"Yeah, it helps in most of the house, but if she comes into my room or I go into hers–"

"You go in her _bedroom_? Shit, Paddy, I thought you were smarter than that."

"I can't always avoid it! And she comes into my room, too, which is just as bad!"

"So whaddaya want me to do about it? You know why it happens, you know what to do about it, keep away from her!"

"I just wanted some advice, dad. For when keeping away isn't practical." Patrick said it quietly and there was something like disappointment in his eyes. Alex rubbed his hand down his face. Well, shit.

"Okay, Paddy." Alex took a deep breath. "You're thirteen. Next coupla years you gonna have whole days when you got a boner, not just a few minutes when you're with a girl. Jerking off helps, I know you know how to do that." Patrick's expression said that still wasn't helping. "Biggest sex organ's your brain, y'understand, son? Find something else to occupy it, next couple years'll go easier. That's why I wasn't, uh, fazed in that dressing room in Saint Paul. We were working, my mind was on the act, not the girls."

Patrick nodded. It was good to have his thoughts on the matter confirmed by his dad like that. Patrick needed to find other distractions that were as effective as an imminent performance on stage.

"What about when I am with a girl?" Knowing what to expect only got him so far.

"Don't screw virgins." Again Alex saw disappointment cross his son's face, and again he found himself wanting to change that expression.

"Dad! I'm not –"

"Like me, yeah, I get it." Alex took another moment. "At your age, you gonna meet a hell of a lot more virgins than any other time in your life. they'll all be underage. You'll find parents, fathers, they get protective of their little girls when boys start sniffing around, especially carny boys. You don't wanna bring angry fathers of underage girls or Sheriffs with arrest warrants back to the lot. The Ruskin name stands for a family show, they got a reputation to uphold, they ain't gonna thank you for jeopardizing their good name like that." Alex nodded absently, gathering his thoughts. "But y'see, thing is, it's different for girls, their first time, it's different to yours. For one thing their first time hurts, even if you do it right – and you don't have the experience to do it right, won't have for a long time yet. Only the worst kind of bastard would want to be the first for a girl he didn't love."

Patrick was astonished. It sounded as though his dad was trying to explain a kind of morality.

"I like girls!" It sounded weak but it was the only reply Patrick could find. "I really liked all my girlfriends!"

"Not the same thing. I like women too, enough not to lie to them, but it's not the same."

Patrick snorted. "You lie to women all the time, dad." Alex unerringly sought out women who were vulnerable to his kind of charm. They were always one night stands, except during winter when Alex had what Patrick thought of as his dad's little harem, women from Carson Springs and the surrounding area that he might see two or three times over the course of a winter season.

Alex shook his head seriously. "I'll spin a convincing tale if she's the mark, Paddy," he began, "but I treat women good compared to a lot of guys out there. I never lie to women just to get 'em into bed. They know I'm not gonna stick around." Alex grinned. "If she's still interested, well, I'll make sure she has a good time. There's a lot of guys out there who'll tell a bunch of lies to get a woman into bed, or cheat on 'em, string 'em along, pretend they're not married or say they're gonna leave their wives. There's a whole load more, even if they don't lie they still don't know how to make a woman feel good, or don't care how she feels as long as they get theirs."

Patrick didn't know what to say. He was beyond astonished now, he'd never imagined his dad had any scruples whatever, certainly not as far as women were concerned.

"What do you say? If you don't lie to them, what do you say?" Patrick was in unknown territory here and was wildly curious.

"I _listen_, son." Alex was serious but not solemn. "So many guys, when they meet a woman, they don't listen to her. I'm good at listening, you know how much listening is involved in our line of work. Women like that. No boasting, no lame jokes, no judgement, no telling her how to fix her broken life, just a friendly ear taking an interest. A lot of women out there, son, they never had a man really listen to them or take them seriously their whole lives."

Listening. It was one of the things to which Casanova had attributed his success with women in his book. Patrick had assumed it was what had worked hundreds of years ago in Europe yet here was his dad suggesting the very same thing worked for modern-day women in modern-day America.

"Where did you learn that?"

"Well the act is a big clue, most of our audiences and clients are women, you have to pay attention in order to read 'em right. Then one time when I was a teenager I strained my voice, had to leave off talking for a while. That summer was a real learning experience in lots of ways." Alex grinned.

"Have you ever been in love, dad?" Patrick suddenly asked. An expression settled just for a moment on his dad's face, one he'd never, never seen there before, then it was gone. Patrick knew the answer in that moment but wanted to hear it, wanted his old man to admit it even if this was the only time in his life he ever would.

"Of course I have. Don't ask such dumb-ass questions, boy," Alex practically growled. This was more like the dad that Patrick knew.

"Never thought you were such an old romantic, that's all, dad," Patrick grinned.

"Less of the 'old', kiddo." There was silence between them for a moment before Alex suddenly asked, "What's this I heard about you having a run-in with Barton?"

Patrick had to think for a moment. "Barton? Yeah, I forgot, it seems like a long time ago now. I took a girlfriend to test night before Katy Barsocky's wedding and Barton scared her. I, uh, had a few words with him. We're cool now," Patrick added. At least, he hoped they were. No-one had mentioned that Barton was out to get him.

"What did you say to him? The way I heard it he ran off licking his wounds."

"No, sir, we shook hands then he left of his own accord."

"What did you say, Paddy?"

"I just wanted him to stop scaring Ashley, dad. She's only twelve, I was her first boyfriend, Barton was being a dick and he was scaring her."

"What did you say to Barton?" Alex was insisting now.

"I just found something that scared him, too, at least enough to make him back off. Do you really want me to spell it out?" Patrick added in a whisper, glancing at the guard as he said this.

"You threatened Barton? Are you out of your mind? I'm gonna be coming out of prison into the middle of a feud?"

"No! Jeez, dad, I'm not an amateur. I reminded him he's not indispensable, that's all. Pointed out that hitting on Ashley or hitting me in front of all those people would be the best way to prove he wasn't. I did it quiet, I didn't humiliate the guy in public. We shook hands after. I'm not his best buddy but there's no feud."

"You sure, Paddy? Absolutely certain?"

Patrick wasn't. "Yeah, dad, no feud. I'd have heard something if there was." Probably.

There was another silence as Alex scrutinized his son. Patrick found he wasn't as crushed as usual by his dad's criticism. That was something to take away and think about.

"Anything else important you not told me, boy?"

"No, nothing. I told you about the prank. Wanna hear the details?"

Alex considered for a moment then, "Okay."

Patrick grinned. It had sounded offhand. That meant his dad was itching to hear all about it.

"First let me tell you a bit about this kid called Rico..." As his son launched into the story Alex relaxed. After a while he found himself grinning too. Paddy was growing up. Change was coming, like it or not. Alex could either ride that wave or be dragged under by it and it wasn't in his nature to let anything drag him under.


	20. Chapter 20

Patrick wasn't too disappointed that he hadn't started dating Abby Rizzi before Thanksgiving break. He was enjoying the novelty of a slow pursuit. When they were on the road there wasn't time for anything like this. He'd already admitted to her that his dad wasn't really a pirate, she'd understood when he explained it was his strategy for dealing with the gossip that surrounded him so she hadn't been mad that he lied to her. She now knew his mom was dead, that he was in care, that he'd been the kid who called his lawyer on Principal Goole and that he skipped lessons without getting into trouble: she'd been impressed by that. He had learned that Abby's dad was a businessman and her mom was an artist. She had argued with David Napier at least three times that he knew of last week.

Patrick had a busy Thanksgiving break. On Monday Billy Ruskin spent the day in Oakland and Patrick had persuaded both Billy to take him along and Sally to let him go. He took the BART into San Francisco to check out prices in and around the city. Tuesday it was Sally's turn, she took all the kids down to Santa Clara to the Awesome America theme park for the day. Patrick had never visited a theme park before, something Liss found hilarious.

"But you practically live in a theme park, Trick!" she giggled.

"So why should I spend time and money visiting another one?" he retorted. "Anyway, a carnival isn't quite the same."

The biggest rides here were much bigger than anything he'd seen at a traveling carnival but it was the games that really caught his attention. Jenni wanted the giant pink cuddly pony from the game where you had to land tennis balls in buckets and Paul wanted the robot action figure from the darts game. Patrick won the first by insisting on being given the same tennis balls that the operator used to demonstrate how the game worked, with Sally weighing in on his side when he claimed the operator had in fact secretly switched them; the second by planting every dart exactly where he had to each time he threw one.

"How did you do that, Trick?" Liss hissed in his ear when Sally's attention was elsewhere. Patrick grinned.

"Practice, and knowing how the games are gaffed," he replied enigmatically.

Patrick spent Wednesday hanging out with the gang from Stoney Ridge. It was like old times, except Alex wasn't around to track him down and call him away to practice or do some other job. Angela was dating Dougie Schmidt which surprised Patrick. He didn't get a chance to ask her about it, though, as Dougie made sure Angela and Patrick never got to chat. The whole gang hung out in the recreation room all day, playing pool and pinball on the old machines that were too busted to survive on the road any more, chatting and relaxing. Patrick couldn't understand why it made him feel so restless.

* * *

Patrick helped William Brodie move the kitchen table and chairs into the dining room after breakfast Thursday morning. They then they started setting both for Thanksgiving dinner, the big table for the adults and the kitchen table for the kids. To finish Brodie opened a packet of paper napkins and started laboriously folding them into a standing fan shape as Patrick watched for a moment. Patrick silently took a handful of napkins to the other table.

"Let me guess, you know all about folding napkins," Brodie huffed as he continued folding.

"I may have read a book once." Patrick sounded amused.

"A book on napkin folding?"

"Origami."

Before Brodie could reply Patrick was holding something that looked like a water lily on the palm of his hand. The cupped flower was delicate and beautiful and Patrick was grinning ear to ear at Brodie's astonishment.

"You never cease to amaze me, Patrick," Brodie said, shaking his head. "Okay. You're now the official holder of the title 'Head of Napkin Folding'. Are you going to do another nineteen like that, or would you like a glamorous assistant?"

"I'll do them. It won't take me long." Patrick flicked a napkin open, smoothed it out on the table and started folding with quick, deft strokes. "Mr. Brodie, am I allowed to go over to Mr. Taylor's tonight? It is Thursday."

"I'm sorry Patrick, I won't be able to take you, we'll still have the house full of guests tonight. Anyway, won't Simon have all his family there for Thanksgiving?" Patrick thought he might, that was one reason he wanted to go. He'd never met any of Taylor's family, had never even seen photos. They still played poker in the kitchen and Taylor was always alone in the house on Thursday. Patrick was curious. He dropped the finished flower onto the table and started his third.

"Last week all he said was 'see you next week.' His children all live out of town and he's divorced or widowed, I think. I could go on the bike. You know I'll be fine over at Mr. Taylor's house."

"He might have gone out of town himself to visit one of them for Thanksgiving, Patrick."

"Then I'll have a nice bike ride there and back to work off some turkey dinner, sir. I'd still like to go. If he isn't at home I'll come straight back. You've been there with me plenty of times now, sir, you know Mr. Taylor's on the level." Patrick casually tossed another completed flower onto the table.

"Okay, Patrick. You still need to be back by ten."

"Of course. Thank you, sir."

* * *

The Lincoln was parked in front of the garage doors and the house lights were on when Patrick arrived at Taylor's. He propped the bicycle between the car and the garage then ran up to ring the doorbell. After a minute he rang it again, grinning as he imagined Taylor grumbling about being interrupted on the can. He gave it two more minutes then rang again. When there was still no answer he walked over to the nearest window, peered into the room.

It was unexpectedly messy inside. A couple of empty liquor bottles, one knocked over, sat on a large low table in front of an unoccupied couch. Photo albums were scattered all over both, the only clear spot was where someone had apparently been sitting and eating. A plate containing the remains of a Thanksgiving dinner sat on the table next to Taylor's usual glass, which was empty. It wasn't until Patrick looked around again that he caught sight of what looked like a bare foot in the doorway. Someone – Taylor? – was on the floor in the hall and not responding to the doorbell.

Starting to panic, Patrick went back to the front door and peered through the patterned glass. Sure enough, when he pressed his face to the glass and looked left as best he could, he was able to make out something man-sized on the floor in the hallway, the glass distorting the interior so Patrick couldn't tell whether or not it was Taylor. He rang the doorbell again, thinking even as he did so it was a stupid thing to do. He checked under the mat but there was no key. Deciding not to search all the flower pots he instead took out his lock picks and had the door open in seconds. Breathing a silent 'thank you' to Danny Ruskin he stepped inside.

The first thing to hit him was the mixed reek of urine and stink of cheap whiskey – not the stuff Taylor usually drank. Next was the sight of Taylor lying on his back, wearing what looked like pajama bottoms and an undershirt. The shirt was stained, as though the man had spilled food or whiskey – or both – down his front. His face was unshaven and his hair unkempt. Patrick was frozen for a long moment until he saw Taylor's chest rise and fall – the man was breathing.

"Mr. Taylor?" Patrick could hear the anxiety in his own voice. Taylor didn't respond. He inched closer and repeated, louder, "Mr. Taylor? It's Paddy!" Taylor still didn't move. Patrick reluctantly came closer, knelt on one knee and gingerly shook the man's shoulder. Still there was no response. Grimacing with distaste Patrick edged round Taylor and slipped through the doorway into the room he had first seen through the window.

It was big but cozily furnished, with a couple of couches, two armchairs and an enormous coffee table. The huge TV was switched off, a modern stereo system under the window was on but whatever had been playing had finished. One of the empty bottles on the coffee table was scotch, Taylor's fancy brand by the smell of it, the other was a bourbon. Patrick guessed Taylor had spent the whole day on the couch, alone, drinking. He'd burned through his usual whiskey, found he didn't have another bottle of the good stuff so settled on the bourbon. That would suggest he wasn't drinking for pleasure, wouldn't it? He'd been sober enough to cook – no, to heat up what looked like a TV dinner subsequently decanted onto a plate – but had abandoned it after eating around half.

Patrick had a sudden thought and grimaced to himself again as he sidled past Taylor once more to check out the kitchen. To his relief the place was pretty tidy. There was even evidence of some washing up having taken place recently though no drying or putting away: it looked as though Taylor had made himself something at lunchtime and been sober enough to clean up afterwards. Taylor had been less sober by dinner time. Cupboard doors and the cutlery drawer had been left hanging open and although Taylor had shut the oven door he hadn't switched it off. Patrick took one look – their oven in the RV kitchen was simple and burned gas from a metal canister, this one was electric and seemed to have as many knobs and dials as the RV's dashboard – then simply clicked off the big red isolation switch on the wall that was labelled 'cooker'. He checked inside: the oven was hot but empty.

Patrick headed back to the hallway to look at Taylor. The man had been drinking all day. Halfway through his evening meal he had gotten up, maybe to go to the bathroom, but instead he'd passed out in the doorway. Nature had then taken it's course, hence the strong stink that up close was starting to make Patrick gag. It looked like there had been a puddle but he'd been there long enough that his clothes had soaked it all up. As he watched Taylor shivered briefly in his sleep.

"Mr. Taylor!" Patrick shook his shoulder again. The guy was too out of it to respond but was wet and now getting cold. Patrick knew cold, wet and unconscious was a bad combination but he had no idea what he should do about it.

The telephone on a little table next to the couch caught Patrick's eye. Patrick could call 9-1-1, though explaining his own presence in the house would be tricky and keeping Lazczyck and child protective services out of it would probably be impossible. He didn't want officialdom to be involved unless absolutely necessary, after all Taylor was in no fit state to help him out right now if he got into trouble for breaking in. At the same time he didn't want to just pretend he'd never found Taylor, what if the man really did need to go to the emergency room? He looked over at him. There wasn't any blood either on the floor or on Taylor himself that Patrick could see. Taylor didn't seem hurt as far as he could tell. The man was just unconscious, wet and becoming cold.

Patrick squeezed past Taylor again, sat on the couch and rummaged in the drawer of the little telephone table, finding the Carson Springs phone book and an address book. Opening the latter at 'T', Patrick found Taylor had three relatives – other Taylors anyway – in LA, Davis and Redwood City. Davis, the nearest, was still an hour away by car. There were plenty of other names in the address book but Patrick had no idea whether he should call any of them.

Patrick thought for a few moments. He certainly didn't want Brodie anywhere near here right now, he would never allow their poker games to continue if he saw Taylor like this and he'd probably also have something to say about Patrick breaking in. He dialed the only other phone number he knew: the Ruskins. Their phone rang and rang. Eventually the ansafone kicked in but Patrick didn't leave a message. If they weren't available now they couldn't help.

Patrick glanced over to Taylor to check his chest was still rising and falling then dug out the address book again, trying to weigh the right choice between calling Taylor's family or an ambulance. He had just decided to call the guy in Davis when his eyes fell on the phone book in the drawer and another thought struck him. Taylor was rich, maybe there were private companies that could deal with this kind of thing discreetly and invoice him later. He flicked to the yellow pages, looked up 'care' but that redirected him to nursing and retirement homes. 'Personal care' listed different kinds of beauty therapists. 'Nursing' seemed more like it and he dialed three numbers before he gave up. This late on Thanksgiving their phone lines weren't manned and all the messages were variations on the theme of 'new clients should call back during office hours'.

The letter 'J' in the white pages caught Patrick's eye. He found there were fewer than ten entries for 'Jepson', only one for E. N. Jepson. She'd been running away from something as a teen, hadn't she? It was likely that alcohol or drugs featured somewhere in the mix. She should be able to suggest what to do and she knew how to be discrete. If she didn't answer, he would try Simon Taylor Jr. in Davis, with 9-1-1 as his third option. Now he had a plan, Patrick picked up the handset again.

"Elizabeth Jepson." To Patrick's relief she had answered after just two rings.

"Ms. Jepson, were there drunks in your family? Is that why you ran away?"

"What?" The voice on the other end of the line was full of outrage but there was a heavy seasoning of fear there as well. "Who is this?" she asked, voice rising. It had taken less than a second for the fear to start turning into anger. Not useful if he wanted her help. Patrick realised belatedly that his question had been rather incendiary, though the initial fear in her tone suggested he was right about the reason she ran away to the carnival. His relief that someone had answered their phone was rapidly being smothered by renewed anxiety.

"Ms. Jepson, please, I'm at – at a friend's house, he's so drunk he passed out on the floor, I can't wake him up." Patrick wasn't hiding the rising panic that saying it out loud was making him feel. "I don't know what to do or who to call. Please. Can you tell me what I should do?"

"Patrick Jane? Is that you? How did you get my home phone number?"

"Please, Ms. Jepson, I don't know what to do!"

"Is this some sort of sick prank?"

"No!" Dammit, this had seemed like a good idea when he saw her number in the phone book. "I'm sorry, this was a bad idea, I'm sorry," Patrick babbled then hung up. He had just picked up Taylor's address book again when the phone rang. He stared at it, not knowing whether to answer it then decided no: he didn't want anyone to know he'd been here in Taylor's house. After a handful of rings he heard an answer machine pick up the call somewhere else in the house and turned back to the address book.

Patrick spent a little more time looking through the entries while he waited for the call to finish. Many listed numbers for both work and home. Patrick had made it halfway through the address book when the entry 'Bob Mayer' caught his eye. There were three other first names written in the entry and as well as his home number there were two numbers listed under 'work', one for 'American Legion' and the other annotated 'CS Mdl Sch'. Brodie knew Mr. Mayer from Patrick's school! Well enough to write down the names of his wife and kids. They were both veterans. Mayer must have dealt with drunks in the army and a friend of Taylor's would surely be discrete. New plan: Patrick would call Mayer, then Simon Jr. and finally 9-1-1.

Patrick waited a few more minutes to make sure whoever had called was no longer on the line, all the while carefully watching Taylor's steady breathing. The man was still shivering intermittently. Patrick decided if he didn't get through to Mayer he'd search the kitchen for a table cloth or something he could use to cover Taylor, try to keep him warm, before calling anyone else. There would be blankets and things upstairs, he was sure, but he felt uncomfortable looking around the house. Patrick had been almost itching with curiosity as he cycled here but now the opportunity had arisen to hot-read Taylor to his hearts content he didn't want to. He would happily have done so if he'd managed to trick Taylor but not when the man was helpless like this. He could almost hear his dad mocking him for that.

Okay, that was enough time. Patrick lifted the handset and the dial tone hummed away reassuringly. He double-checked Mayer's number, dialed it eagerly, then listened to it ring and ring. Mayer was out, or away for the holidays. Patrick went back to the address book and called the Davis number. It turned out to be some kind of boarding house as far as Patrick could tell, the one phone shared between a number of occupants. No one there had heard of Simon Taylor Jr. but he left a message anyway.

Next Patrick considered the Bay Area number. It was eight o'clock already and he needed to be back by ten. Julie Petersen – in the address book the name 'Taylor' had been crossed out, she must have married – would barely get here in time. He looked her up under 'P'. Julie's husband was called Finn and it looked like Taylor had two grandkids, Peter and Isabelle. If she had those kind of commitments it was unlikely she could drop everything to come over here straight away.

Patrick had just decided to dial 9-1-1 then call the daughter to let her know what had happened when he heard a car pulling into the driveway. Standing, Patrick saw it pull up on the far side of the Lincoln. Moving to the window he was astonished to see Ms. Jepson get out and walk over to the front door. She rang the bell and called out.

"Patrick Jane! I know you're in there!"

"Shit." Patrick edged around Taylor again and went up to the front door. Jepson was knocking on it then rang the doorbell again.

"I can see you through the door, Patrick, open up!"

Patrick reluctantly did so.

"God almighty," Jepson said as soon as the door opened, stepping back rather than into the house and covering her mouth and nose, "What's that smell? is it him?"

"Well it's not me," Patrick replied, rolling his eyes. Jepson gave him a look then stepped over the threshold.

"No, don't close the door, let's get some fresh air in here," she said as she eyed Taylor. Patrick left the door ajar rather than wide. "Who the hell is _this_ guy? When you said a friend had passed out drunk I thought you were talking about another kid. Isn't that the lawyer who came into school a couple weeks ago?"

"Yes ma'am," was all Patrick could think to say. Jepson regarded Taylor for a moment, then turned back to Patrick.

"Okay, I'll save the questions for later." Jepson's tone was reassuringly matter-of-fact. "We shouldn't leave him on his back. If he vomits he could choke to death."

"He's cold and wet, too, he was shivering."

"Uh huh," Jepson nodded. "If we're going to move him then you have to clean him up first, I'm not stinking myself up for some drunk," Jepson stated flatly.

Patrick's panic, which had subsided, rose again.

"Me? Why me? I don't want to touch any part of him that needs cleaning!"

"Hey, you called me over here! I'm not a nurse, I'm a teacher! Do you think he'd want some strange woman to take off his clothes, clean him up?"

It was a good point. Patrick decided to change tack. "I didn't call you over. How did you know where I was calling from?"

"I have caller ID. I called you back, you didn't answer but the ansafone message told me enough for me to find this address in the phone book."

That was pretty smart of Jepson. It didn't move things forward here, though. Patrick looked down at Taylor then up at Jepson, reluctant to do what she had told him and trying to think of something to say. He saw Jepson decide to take charge an instant before she opened her mouth.

"Right. Patrick, you go upstairs for clean pajamas and towels, lots of towels. I'll check out the kitchen for cleaning stuff. I guess we're lucky he made it into the hallway, the rug in that room doesn't seem to be wet."

Trying not to think how gross that would have been, Patrick headed upstairs. He found the master bedroom and fresh pajamas, found a big closet full of bedding and towels, then reluctantly headed back downstairs with his arms full, the stink hitting him again after the fresher air of the upstairs rooms. Jepson, meanwhile, had put on rubber gloves and an apron from the kitchen, filled a mop bucket with somethings steaming hot that smelled very much like disinfectant and was awkwardly dragging Taylor a little further out into the hall. She was right, it would be easier to clean him up on the ceramic floor tiles of the hall rather than in the limited space of the doorway or on the rug in the room. Taylor was in no position to complain about the discomfort.

"Here," Jepson said, throwing another apron and unopened pack of rubber gloves towards Patrick. "We'll both strip him then I'll find the washing machine while you clean up his... front. Call me when you're done, I'll help you roll him on top of a towel so you don't get water everywhere when you wash, um, his rear." She indicated the bucket and handed him a wash-up sponge. "Sorry, it was this or a mop. You dry him, I'll help you dress him and we both move him onto that sofa." Jepson nodded towards the front room. "I'll clean the floor, put the towels in with his pajamas and start the wash cycle while you empty the bucket and bring it back here. We'll roll the rug back so the bucket can go next to the sofa in case he does throw up."

"I'll see if I can find a wash cloth," Patrick said, then ran back upstairs. He was back in less than a minute, tested the temperature of the water in the bucket (not too hot) then pulled on the new rubber gloves. He really didn't want to do this but he couldn't think of any way out of it and he was as ready as he was going to be. He nodded at Jepson.

They followed Jepson's plan, exchanging words only when necessary for the task in hand. Taylor was heavier than he looked but eventually they wrangled him – now cleaned up and re-dressed – onto the couch on top of yet more towels. Jepson placed him into an approximate recovery position, lying with his face clear of the front edge and the bucket as close to his mouth as Patrick could place it. Patrick ran upstairs again and returned with a blanket that he draped over the old man. In that surprisingly short time the hallway was smelling, if not sweeter then definitely a whole lot cleaner.

Patrick closed the front door then started tidying the front room, closing and stacking the photo albums and disposing of the empty bottles and other trash. He took the plate and glass out to the kitchen and washed them as Jepson finished up in the hallway. While she sorted out the washing machine and set it going Patrick made two mugs of tea which they took into the front room, Patrick curling up in an armchair and Jepson stretching on the smaller couch.

"Okay, spill the beans. What happened here?" Jepson gestured towards Taylor.

"I play chess with the old man every Thursday," Patrick started. Jepson didn't need to know it wasn't chess that they played. "I cycled over here tonight, found him like this."

"You came to play chess on Thanksgiving?"

"He just said 'see you next week' last time I saw him."

"Does he always get drunk on the nights you play chess?"

"No ma'am, he sometimes has a glass of something but he sips it, the one glass lasts the whole night. I never saw him drunk before."

"Do your foster parents know you come here?"

"Yes ma'am, Mr. Brodie always came with me before. This was my first time on my own. Brodie couldn't come because it's Thanksgiving and there's a crowd of people back at my foster carer's place. He thought Mr. Taylor might be away for Thanksgiving, or have guests or something, so I'd be heading straight back anyway."

"But you didn't call your foster parents when you found Taylor like this."

"They're, uh, kinda straight arrows." Patrick paused before continuing. "You gonna rat me out, Ms. Jepson?"

"I should, Taylor's obviously not a fit adult to be..." Jepson ground to a halt under Patrick's glare.

"Does it look like he knows I'm here?" Patrick demanded. "He forgot I was coming, or maybe he thought I wouldn't come on Thanksgiving night. If he got drunk today he had a reason. He's not an alcoholic." Even as he said it, Patrick knew this was wishful thinking on his part. Some drunks were very good at hiding the fact and although Taylor wasn't an habitual liar the man was nevertheless a good one.

"Drunks don't need a reason, Patrick," Jepson retorted darkly.

"He isn't a threat to me. He isn't a threat to anyone like this."

"I heard you on the phone. You were freaking out. Kids – kids shouldn't have to deal with things like this," she said with conviction.

Patrick looked down at the cup of tea in his hands.

"I just didn't know what to do, that's all. I wasn't freaking out," he lied. "You weren't the first person I called, believe me, just the first to answer the phone. I only tried you because I thought you might... have some experience with this kind of thing." Patrick looked Jepson in the eye now. "To help Mr. Taylor, not cause trouble for him. I wanted your advice over the phone, I didn't expect you to turn up here."

"You gonna keep blackmailing me, Patrick?"

"That isn't what this is!" Patrick replied heatedly. "You ran away when you were a kid! That's what made me think you might know how to deal with..." Patrick gestured towards the couch and watched Jepson's face closely. "Yeah, you do," he added quietly. "Anyway, it wasn't blackmail. I just wanted some advice. You didn't have to come here."

"You're glad I did, though."

Patrick _was_ glad, he didn't bother denying it. Silence stretched between them until Patrick asked, "What now?"

Jepson sighed. "You really never saw a drunk before?" Scepticism edged her tone.

"Of course I've seen drunks unconscious before," Patrick replied impatiently. "Their friends or family haul them away to sort them out, not me. I've never had to do anything like this before, my dad doesn't–" Patrick stopped abruptly.

Jepson eyed him curiously then said, "Someone should stay with him until he wakes up. Just in case."

"I have a curfew, I need to be back at Brodie's house by ten. If you stay I can sneak out, be back here before midnight and you could go home then. I'd have to leave him alone around five thirty tomorrow morning so they didn't find out I was gone but I could be back here before seven."

"You're asking a lot. I don't want you sneaking out on your foster parents and I don't want to be alone in a strangers house."

"I'd owe you a favor."

"Yeah, right."

"I'm serious. One favor, no questions asked. If you don't call it in by the time the season starts next April it carries over. I'll – I'll even put it in writing."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I owe _him_," Patrick nodded at Taylor. "He did more than just get me out of trouble at school."

At that point Taylor broke wind extravagantly. Jepson and Patrick both burst out laughing.

"If that comes to anything you're on your own, kid," Jepson gasped out.

"If that comes to anything I'm using that mop on him then burning it. And the couch," Patrick shot back.

The atmosphere between them was more relaxed after that. Taylor had a VCR and Patrick found a small collection of movies next to it. They debated for a while before settling on a recent western starring Clint Eastwood. Patrick had to leave an hour or so into the movie in order to be back for his curfew, but he returned to Taylor's house around eleven thirty, finding Jepson reading a book rather than watching the TV.

"You okay?" Jepson asked. Patrick's shirt was stained.

Patrick looked down at himself. "Yeah. I slipped a little climbing down the porch, that's all. I guess you can go home now, ma'am," Patrick added.

"Um, I'm not happy leaving you alone here overnight, Patrick," Jepson replied. She had clearly been thinking while he had been away. "I should stay as well, at least until you go back home in the morning."

"Why?"

Jepson rolled her eyes. "I don't think it's okay for a seventh grader to be here alone with an unconscious drunk. People change when they're drunk," she added darkly. "Like you said, you have zero experience in dealing with this kind of thing."

Patrick looked at Jepson curiously. He hadn't thought about it until now but she had answered the phone straight away, even though it was Thanksgiving, then spent the evening with him cleaning up after some drunk guy. Now she was proposing to spend the night watching over them both.

"This isn't the worst Thanksgiving you ever had, is it?" he asked quietly.

"Not even in the top ten, kiddo." Jepson said. She might have been saying that to make him feel better about ruining her holidays but Patrick didn't think so.

"I never said 'sorry' for spoiling your Thanksgiving. I guess I never said 'thanks' for coming over to help, either. So sorry, and thanks."

"That's okay. You didn't spoil my Thanksgiving. I only just got back home when you called. I, uh, helped out at a homeless shelter today." She expected Patrick to laugh at her for being a mark. It made her add, "I guess there was one more bum who needed my help today."

Patrick wasn't sure whether she thought he was the bum or Taylor. He decided not to pursue it. "A homeless shelter?" Carny folk weren't usually the volunteering type, though Patrick remembered Jepson telling him she became a teacher to help disadvantaged kids. She might be the exception that proves the rule. Or maybe she helped out at the shelter on the holidays because... because she preferred it to being alone at Thanksgiving.

Jepson glared at him defensively, then shrugged when the expected mocking failed to materialize.

"Been helping out at Thanksgiving there for a few years now. It gives the regular shelter staff some time off to be with their families." Jepson sounded surprisingly bitter, more so than was warranted by her having no family to speak of. There was some story behind that. Would she tell him? Patrick didn't think so.

Jepson continued talking because Patrick wasn't, she couldn't stop herself from filling the silence. "The other holiday volunteers are a fun crowd and the homeless people are very grateful. It beats spending the day in your pajamas getting drunk in front of the TV," she added, gesturing towards Taylor. Even to her own ears it sounded like she was trying to justify herself. She wasn't lonely and sad during the holidays, dammit, today at the shelter _had_ been fun, she wasn't a drunk or – she blinked at the thought – a seventh grader who was happier seeking out the company of the drunk instead of spending Thanksgiving with the people at his foster home.

Patrick would bet homeless people were a hell of a lot more grateful than middle school kids. He ignored the dig at Taylor and the sudden look of pity that had flashed across her face as Jepson looked at him. He preferred it when she was suspicious.

"So what now? Uh, two of the bedrooms upstairs are occupied, but some of the others look like guest rooms."

Jepson shook her head. "Someone should stay here in the room, keep an eye on him. I think if he was gonna throw up he would have done it by now but he might take a turn for the worse. We can spell each other sleeping on this couch, if you want."

"Did you already watch the end of the movie?" Patrick asked. Jepson shook her head again. "Well, we could do worse than watch movies all night."

"Sure, Patrick. I'll go make us both another cup of tea first."

"I'll go get a couple more blankets. For us," Patrick explained, standing and stretching. The house was cooling overnight and Patrick had no idea how to switch on the heating. There was a fireplace in this room but no logs stacked next to it. "There's a small bathroom next to the back door if you want to use it."

The phone rang a couple of times but they ignored it, let the ansafone deal with any clients needing Taylor's help tonight. They were halfway through the next movie – a recent James Bond – when a car pulled up at the kerb outside. Patrick was half relieved, half dismayed to see a dim figure walking up the path. Jepson paused the video as the front door opened.

"You still up, Dad?" called a voice then someone walked into the room and stopped dead, looking around with narrowed eyes. "Who the hell are you?"

It was Zack the library guy.

Zack spotted Taylor on the couch and was there in three strides, calling 'Dad!' and giving him a shake. All the while Patrick's mind was spinning. Zack the library guy? Whose lawyer dad was putting him through law school, Patrick remembered, and who had been wearing a UC Davis sweatshirt every time he saw him in the library.

Taylor groaned when Zack shook him – progress! Patrick thought with a distant part of his mind – but didn't wake. Zack straightened.

"What the _hell_ is going on?" he repeated. He looked accusingly first at Jepson, then at Patrick, no trace of recognition in his eyes.

"Zack?" Patrick was the first to speak. It must be a middle name... "You're Simon Taylor Jr."

"The magician kid from the library," Zack began, surprise eclipsing his suspicious scowl. "Uh, Peter –"

"Patrick Jane," Patrick nodded. Zack's stance relaxed a little as he looked over to Jepson again. "This is Ms. Jepson. She's a teacher, one of the vice principals from my school," Patrick continued. Jepson stood and shook Zack's hand.

"Call me Liz," she said.

"Zack Taylor," Zack responded automatically. "Uh, what happened here?"

"Patrick came over for his regular Thursday chess game," Jepson began, "but found your father passed out drunk on the floor in the hallway. He didn't know what to do so he called me."

Patrick could see from Zack's face that he knew his dad didn't play chess on Thursdays. He was also probably wondering how Patrick got inside the house.

"Last week he never said he was planning anything for Thanksgiving," Patrick quickly added, wanting to gloss over those little details, "so I came over this evening as usual. When I saw him on the floor I didn't know what to do. Everyone I called was out except Ms. Jepson and she came over to help. I, uh, think he drank a lot of whiskey today."

"He was lying on his back in the hallway when I got here so we, um, moved him onto the couch," Jepson added. Patrick was grateful she didn't go into more details. He wouldn't want to know if someone had had to clean up Alex like that. "He didn't wake up when we moved him so I told Patrick we should keep an eye on him overnight or until he did wake up, just in case."

"Hence rolling up the rug, the bucket next to the couch, and watching a movie to keep awake," Zack nodded astutely.

"I think that's my cue to leave," Jepson cut in, switching off the VCR and TV. "Your friend doesn't need me here any longer, Patrick, so if you don't mind I'd like to go get some sleep tonight." She fished out her car keys from her handbag then stood to shake hands with Zack again.

"Thanks for everything, Ms. Jepson," Patrick quickly said as she stood.

"I'm sure you'll understand if I don't say 'my pleasure,' Patrick." Jepson was talking tough but there was a smile softening her features as she said this.

Zack thanked Jepson and saw her off.

When Zack returned Patrick stood and said, "I guess I should be going, too." He could call Zack tomorrow – no, later today, Patrick realized – to make sure the old man was okay.

"Hold on a moment there, Patrick." Zack was leaning against the edge of the doorway, apparently casually, effectively blocking Patrick's exit. "I know Dad doesn't play _chess_ on Thursdays."

"She's a VP at my school, dude! I couldn't tell her we played cards. She nearly called in child protective services just because I was here and your dad was passed out." Patrick gestured towards Taylor, hoping Zack would be as sympathetic as he had been when they first met.

"But she believed it was chess, so you're telling me that you're a convincing liar."

Shit. That was exactly what he'd just done. Jepson's compliance with Patrick's wishes and Zack's previous show of sympathy when they first met at the library had lulled him into a false sense of security. Zack had found intruders in his house and his dad unconscious – of course he was suspicious. And he was nearly a lawyer, paying attention and seizing on every weakness and opportunity was his job, or would be. He might not have called the cops yet but he wasn't on Patrick's side and Patrick had been stupid to assume he was. Patrick belatedly kept his mouth shut. Zack let the silence extend but Patrick was wise to that trick now. After a long moment Zack spoke again.

"Were you here when he passed out?"

"No!" Zack's question goaded Patrick into speech in spite of himself. "I got here a little before eight. He didn't answer the door when I rang the bell. His car was here and the light was on so I looked through the window. That's when I saw him, well, his legs anyway, lying on the floor in the doorway to this room."

"Did you hurt my dad?" Zack's expression was severe.

"I don't think so," Patrick said as he wondered where Zack was going with this. "Ms. Jepson checked him over before we picked him up. He's heavier than he looks but we were as careful as we could be when we moved him to the couch, we didn't drop him."

"Did you do anything to cause him harm before your accomplice got here?"

"Dude!" Patrick protested, "Ms. Jepson's not my accomplice. I found him like this, I swear!" If Zack really thought Jepson was his partner in crime he wouldn't have let her leave. No, Zack thought he was lying, believed Patrick had harmed his dad in some way then called Jepson over as an unwitting collaborator to provide him with an alibi. He knew Patrick was a good liar and – Patrick's level of anxiety ratcheted up another notch – he'd made sure they were alone. Patrick's belated sense of self-preservation finally kicked in and he retreated to put the armchair between himself and Zack, holding onto the back with both hands. Zack was no longer leaning in the doorway, he was standing, blocking it. "I was afraid he'd had a heart attack or something until I saw the empty bottles! I wanted to help him, not hurt him!"

"But you see, I know you're a good liar."

Patrick switched his gaze to the old man lying on the sofa. He had to make Zack believe he hadn't done Taylor any harm. He stopped thinking about Zack, about his own precarious position, and thought instead about Taylor, all the lawyer had done for him.

"The first time I met your dad was the day they arrested my dad. He came over to the trailer himself and yeah, he had a job to do, but he'd stopped them sending child protective services or the cops over to get me, he explained everything, answered all my questions and took me to the CPS office himself. He even stopped by the Sheriff's office on the way there so I could see my dad. He _listened_ to what I said. That day he was the only one who treated me like a person, not like a problem that needed fixing.

"Then a couple days later my foster carers wanted to have me arrested. He was on my side when no-one else was, this impressive lawyer in a fancy suit coming out in the middle of the night to help out some kid he just met. He said he'd help and he did. He wasn't being paid and he came out to help me anyway. It felt like he was the only person in the world on my side that night.

"When I cussed at my school principal a week later I didn't think anyone would be able to make it go away, but that's exactly what he did. That's when we got talking. I wanted to get to know him better and he seemed happy to let me. Since then we've been playing cards on Thursdays.

"We always play at the kitchen table." An affectionate smile played over Patrick's lips now at how careful Taylor had been about that. "We talk about nothing and everything and he understands rather than needing explanations all the time. When it's time to leave he always says he hasn't had this much fun playing poker in years. Coming to your kitchen on Thursdays... It was almost like going home."

Patrick finally turned to Zack, looked him in the eye. "Mr. Taylor's been there for me every time I needed help, right from the moment dad was arrested. He's become my _friend_. I would never do anything to harm your dad, Zack."

Patrick could see Zack had been moved by his speech.

"I don't think you'd hurt him on purpose," Zack said slowly after a long pause and Patrick's heart sank. He supposed he couldn't blame Zack, he was simply being protective towards his father. He'd given it his best shot and it hadn't worked, Zack's words left Patrick without hope. Even as the thought crossed his mind he could hear Alex saying 'hope's for suckers, Paddy'. Zack was continuing, "You said you weren't here when it happened. How did you get into the house?"

"He usually leaves the front door unlocked for me on Thursdays."

"Did he do that tonight?" Damn, Zack was good at this. Patrick didn't answer. He wasn't going to incriminate himself.

"So you broke in." Zack's voice was steady. Patrick still said nothing. After a long moment Zack continued.

"I think your teacher friend's on the level. She only came over when you called for help. What did you do after you broke in and before she got here?"

Patrick ran his hands over his face and sighed. Suddenly he felt very tired. If he was going to have to repeat this story to cops and his lawyer – he thought with a pang that it wouldn't be Taylor, not tonight – then he needed to tell the truth. A lie would be so much harder to remember.

"When I got here I could see he was breathing so I tried to wake him up. When that didn't work I didn't know what to do. I could see two whiskey bottles on the table, I don't know if they were full when he started but they were empty when I got here so I guessed he was drunk, not ill. There was a plate of food on the table, too. He hadn't eaten much and the leftovers weren't quite cold yet. That made me check the kitchen. It was a bit untidy and the oven was still on so I switched it off. Then I started calling people on the telephone. I didn't want to get in trouble but I didn't want to go away and pretend I hadn't seen him, either, just in case..." Patrick gestured towards Taylor as his speech tailed off. "I guess no good deed goes unpunished," he added bitterly.

"Tell me how you got in." Zack didn't seem to be violent, thank goodness.

Patrick reluctantly dug out the roll of picks from his pocket. He briefly thought Brodie might be right to confiscate them, they seemed to cause as many problems as they solved. Could he find something as useful that looked more innocuous? That zip move Danny had taught him only needed a brace and a stiff curved piece of metal...

Zack swore. "I thought you said you weren't a thief?"

"I'm not." Patrick was feeling tired and defeated. He couldn't summon the energy to be angry about the accusation. "You must be able to pick locks too, Zack, if you do a magic act?" Zack shook his head. Patrick added, "I can show you, if you like?" Zack merely continued to shake his head, Patrick wasn't sure if he was refusing his offer or shaking it in disbelief.

"So if I look around I won't find anything missing?"

"Not a thief, Zack," Patrick repeated. "We had a coupla cups of tea, you're down some teabags and milk, that's all." Patrick was pretty sure, now, that Zack wasn't going to beat him up before calling the cops. If Zack was that kind of guy he would have hit him by now. Patrick felt the remaining tension drain from his body and suddenly he was dog-tired. Why did everything have to be so difficult? Now he was no longer sheltering from Zack behind the armchair, he was using the back of it to prop himself up.

"Who did you call?"

"Anyone I thought could tell me what to do for someone who was drunk and passed out. My friends up at Stoney Ridge trailer park. Some companies that send nurses. His friend Mr. Mayer. Uh, you. Ms. Jepson was the only one who answered the phone when I called. I didn't ask her to come over but she worked out where I called from and came anyway."

"Most people would call 9-1-1."

"I was about to when Ms. Jepson showed up. They never called an ambulance for, uh, this sort of thing at the carnival so I wasn't sure if I should and I, er, I wanted to avoid anyone official if I could."

"You did more than just move dad," Zack continued. "The house reeks of pine disinfectant, so does he."

"He'd peed his pants. I cleaned him up, Ms. Jepson cleaned up the hallway. His old pajamas and the towels we used are in the washing machine. I didn't hurt him, Zack, he was on the floor, wet and shivering and I wanted to make sure he was okay. That's why I did anything tonight. I– I might not have gotten it right but I was just trying to help your dad." Patrick swallowed, took a deep breath, then added in a small voice, "You, uh, gonna call the cops?" Patrick felt he would almost welcome the cops if it meant he could sleep. There would be a cot in the cell at the station house, wouldn't there?

Zack walked over to the phone, his eyes never leaving Patrick, then he picked up the handset and dialed three numbers. Patrick managed a weary grin, his mouth on autopilot, "I mean, normally at this point I'd call your dad to get me out of trouble but something tells me that won't work this time."

Zack pressed the hook down before the call was answered, though he kept the handset against his ear. He took a deep breath, blew it out then dialed three numbers again. Patrick apparently hadn't noticed, he was chuckling as he asked, "Know any good lawyers, Zack?" His smile faded as he looked over at Taylor and said quietly, "At least the old man's gonna be okay."

Zack again pressed the hook with his finger before he spoke, his knuckles white as he clutched the handset, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them he asked, staring straight ahead rather than looking at Patrick, "You been in Juvie before, right?"

"Nosir, this will be my first time. New experience. My foster carer promised me he'd visit if I ever got sent there," Patrick added conversationally. Zack barely caught his next words as Patrick added in an undertone, "My dad won't."

Zack took another deep breath, hesitated, took yet another before he lifted his finger off the hook and dialed for a third time. "S'funny," Patrick yawned hugely before continuing, "your dad's the one who told me to keep out of trouble with the law. It's _ironic_."

"Goddammit to hell!" Zack said loudly, slamming the handset back onto the cradle. Patrick looked at him in bleary surprise as Zack pointed at him. "Right! If I'm not calling the cops you can make yourself useful! Clear this bucket away, put the rug back! I'm gonna sort out his bedroom. Then we can both try and wake him up enough to get him upstairs into bed."

Without waiting for a response Zack turned on his heel and ran upstairs. His dad had spoken a few times about 'Paddy' who had started to come over on Thursdays to play poker. Patrick's brief account chimed with what his dad had said, although his dad only said he was the son of a client, he hadn't mentioned that 'Paddy' was a little kid. Well, he _had_ said Paddy was 'a bit of a rascal but a good kid at heart'. Zack hadn't taken him literally. 'Kid' was a word his dad would use of anyone under forty these days.

His dad's bedroom looked as tidy as always. Zack was just turning down the comforter when he heard his dad's raised voice, muffled but recognizably him. Zack hadn't seen his dad this drunk very often but he knew how bad-tempered he could be when he woke up, drunk or not. As he headed downstairs he heard the front door slam. Simon Taylor was sitting up, cursing and putting on his glasses when Zack entered.

"Junior? Wha' the hell?" Taylor was slurring his words a little but otherwise seemed fine.

"Are you okay, Dad?"

"Yeah. Yeah, 'm fine. A little drunk, is all."

"Yeah, Dad, I would say more than a little. What happened?"

"I thought I saw Paddy Jane! I woke up and I could have sworn I saw that kid." Taylor made an exaggerated gesture around the room. "Doin' something to the rug. I, uh, shouted at him. Where'd he go?"

"Home, I should think," Zack said, thinking: Patrick was doing what I said. He could have run as soon as I went upstairs but the kid stayed to do what I told him to do. "And I need to get you into your own bed, not this couch, Dad."

Taylor shook his head. "Not home. Hasn' gotta home. Says this place feels mos' like home." Taylor looked around blearily. "Shouldn'ta shouted."

"Lets get you up into bed, Dad," Zack repeated.

"Mighta hit the boy. Didn't mean to," he added earnestly to Zack. "I woke up, he was next to the couch, doin' something to the rug. I shouted, tried to point to the door and... I think I mighta hit him." Taylor rubbed at his right hand then repeated, "I think I mighta hit him. Didn't mean to. Didn't think he was so close. Shouldn'ta done that." Taylor looked at Zack. "Shouldn'ta done that."

"Okay, Dad. That's not so good but we can't do anything about it now. The boy took off and you need to go to bed. Maybe you can go over and apologise tomorrow. It'll all look better in the morning."


	21. Chapter 21

It was the afternoon of the following day when a taxi pulled up to the kerb outside Brodie's house. Taylor paid the driver, picked up Patrick's jacket from the seat next to him – it had been hanging by Taylor's front door as he left to come over just now – and stepped out of the cab. As he stood he spotted Patrick sitting on the steps up to the porch, mug of tea in his hands. It reminded Taylor so forcibly of the day he first met the boy that he paused a moment before taking a deep breath and walking up to the house. As he got closer Taylor could see Patrick was sporting a cut lip and bruises to his face. Patrick watched him approach, saying nothing.

"Hello, Paddy," Taylor ventured when he was close enough to speak. Patrick lifted his head in a kind of reverse nod, acknowledging Taylor's presence, but still didn't speak.

"I guess talking's a little painful with that lip," Taylor continued apprehensively. "Was that, uh, did I do that?" Patrick gave a single tight nod, his eyes never leaving Taylor's face. "Jesus." Taylor said it quietly, feeling the blood drain from his face. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

The boy shrugged, then scooted over to the far end of the steps. Taylor sat on the opposite side, gazing over to the street. Patrick didn't take his eyes off Taylor. "I never hit a child in my life." Taylor said it quietly, his voice breaking a little as he said it. He was looking very shaken now, turning to Patrick and unable to take his eyes from the bruising on Patrick's face. "I saw my fair share of death in the war, never backed away from trouble when I was with the carnival but I never hit a kid, never thought I ever would. God I'm so sorry, Paddy. It was an accident, I didn't mean to, I was–"

"Drunk." Interrupted Patrick, his voice flat and a little thicker than usual as he spoke around his swollen lip. Taylor gently shook his head.

"I was going to say I wasn't wearing my glasses," he had turned back to face the road again. "I didn't know who was there at first and when I did realize it was you I certainly didn't know you were within arm's reach. But yes, I was drunk. I wouldn't have said or done any of it if I'd been sober." Taylor again looked into Patrick's face. "I am very sorry that I hit you when I flailed about like that. I am deeply sorry about last night, Paddy."

Patrick didn't seem to want to reply to this, he turned away from Taylor and gazed into the distance. After a moment Taylor took a deep breath.

"Okay. I understand. Thank you for hearing me out, at least. Here, you, ah, left your coat at my house." He put it down carefully on the step between them and made as if to leave.

"You think you're better than me." Patrick said it in a low monotone and Taylor winced. "What you shouted. You think I'm only good enough for your kitchen, like a dog you don't allow on the furniture."

"It's not what you think, not that." Taylor was glad Patrick had given him an excuse to stay and explain. "I always set up poker games in the kitchen, not just our games. Whenever anyone came to play cards: judges and generals, politicians and princes, they all played cards in my kitchen over the years. I don't think I'm better than you, Paddy, but, um." Whatever the issue was, Taylor was unexpectedly struggling to articulate it. Patrick looked at Taylor, wary curiosity in his eyes now. "Well... I... do find you a little intimidating." These words, finally, got a reaction from the boy, he couldn't hide his surprise although he still didn't speak, instead turning back to face the street again. Taylor continued quietly, "I can read people and I'm good at it, it's useful in my line of work or when I play poker but you're..." Taylor shook his head gently as his customary eloquence continued to elude him. "Do you have any idea how good at it you are? I've been reading people for over forty years and you're way better than I am. You're better at it than your father. I mean, you lack his life experience, you don't always comprehend everything you see, but..." Taylor ran out of words. Patrick remained silent. After a moment Taylor turned away too, they were both gazing sightlessly into the street now. Taylor continued.

"The truth is I was scared to let you into the rest of my home, Paddy. I was afraid I would lose your friendship and your respect if you saw me as clearly as you are able to."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Badly, I suspect." Taylor eyed Patrick briefly out of the corner of his eye but the cut on his lip made the boy's expression hard to read from this side.

"Me too," Patrick said in an undertone, then louder, still not looking at Taylor, "You a drunk, Mr. Taylor?"

"No, son –"

"Don't call me that, you don't have the right to call me that." Patrick's words came out fast, as full of feeling as his others had been empty of it.

"I'm sorry, Paddy," Taylor said quickly, "you're right, I don't. I meant no disrespect."

"I met your son."

"Junior? He, um, told me what you said last night." He'd been aware that Patrick enjoyed their poker nights but had no idea the boy felt so deeply about him personally. He paused to allow Patrick to speak and was relieved that he did so.

"Not the first time I met him. He calls himself 'Zack', though, not 'Simon Jr.' I hadn't made the connection."

"His – his mother and I always called him 'Junior'. I guess if he prefers it I should start using 'Zack' instead."

"You should."

Taylor nodded absently, pausing for a moment before going on.

"He asked me the same question. I don't believe I'm an alcoholic but, um, they persuaded me to go see the family doctor tomorrow morning to talk to him. About my drinking and about some other things." Taylor saw surprise in Patrick's face again, the boy hadn't expected that. "Junior's sister came over this morning, she took my car to go pick up my eldest at the airport just now." Taylor looked sheepish. "We're supposed to have a family conference when they get back. Look, I understand if you don't want to have anything more to do with me, after last night," Taylor continued, "but I think you do need to talk. Bottling up your feelings like this isn't healthy, Paddy, as I'm finding out myself. If you can't talk to Brodie and you – you don't want to talk to me any more, please consider talking over everything with your friends up at Stoney–"

"I'm grounded."

"What?"

"I'm grounded. I'm–" Patrick grimaced, "I'm not allowed to go to Stoney Ridge."

Realization dawned on Taylor. "Because of last night."

"They caught me out of the house last night."

* * *

Patrick had cycled less than a block when he realized he hadn't switched on his bicycle lights and he hadn't picked up his jacket when he fled Taylor's house. He stopped at the side of the street to attend to the lights and was shivering in the chill night air before he got back on the bike. He glanced up at the sky, clear, no moon but not so many stars visible here, the lights of the city got in the way. So did the tears he was determined not to let spill.

He rubbed at his eyes and was about to move off when the car that was approaching on the opposite side of the road revealed it was a patrol car by flashing its blue and red lights and veering slowly across the road to come to a halt in front of him. Patrick sat astride the bicycle, unable to do anything but wait as one of the cops got out.

"Hey, son. You're out kinda late," the cop began easily as his partner stepped out of the patrol car too.

"Are you Patrick Jane?" the other, younger cop asked.

Patrick's heart sank. They weren't just hassling him for being out in the middle of the night. Zack must have decided to call the cops after all. He raised his hands.

"Ya got me," he called over to them. "I'll come quietly."

"It's okay, son," the first cop said with a certain amount of amusement in his voice as he walked over. "You're not under arrest. Your foster parents reported you missing when they found you'd run away, that's all."

"I didn't run away–" Patrick began.

"Let's put that bike in the trunk, get you home," the cop interrupted. "Whatever happened, it'll all look better in the morning." His partner was already on the radio as the first cop got close enough to get hold of the bike – and see Patrick's face clearly.

"Hold on there, Mike," the cop called over his shoulder then turned back to look more closely at Patrick. He reached towards Patrick's face then stopped as the boy flinched away, saying, "Whoa, it's okay, son, I just want to take a look at that lip there." The cop's hand, moving more slowly now, gently touched of Patrick's chin and angled his face to the lights of the car. That was when Patrick finally realized the coolness on his face was blood. The cop let go of his chin but once more took hold of the handlebar of the bike before turning to his partner.

"Come over here, Mike, tell me what you think of this."

"Hold on, Joyce," the other cop said into the radio, then sauntered over. He gave Patrick a long look, not unkind but detached, as though he was judging cattle at a show.

"Hmm. Should we get him checked out?"

"Yeah, I think so," the first cop replied, then addressed Patrick. "It's okay, son, we'll have someone check you over then we'll go back to the station house. Your foster parents can pick you up from there. You call it in, Mike," the cop said to his partner, then he smiled down at Patrick. "C'mon, son, let's get you in the car."

"Mr. Brodie didn't do this," Patrick protested.

"Let's get you checked out by a doctor first, son, then you can tell us all about it."

It wasn't a long drive but it was warm in the patrol car with the windows up after the chill of the night air and the evening had taken its toll. Patrick had to be woken up by the cops when they got to the hospital. The ER was quiet this early, the morning after Thanksgiving. The triage nurse led the cops and their young charge straight through to a curtained hospital bed to wait for the doctor, where Patrick promptly fell asleep again, curled up on top of the bed. He woke with a start to the rattle of the curtain being swept back.

"Patrick Jane? Good morning, young man." Patrick blinked blearily at the too-cheery young doctor with a strange accent who drew the curtain around again before standing next to his bed, looking over a clipboard. "I'm Patrick, too," he added in a friendly manner, pointing to his name badge. Patrick glanced at it, then stared, awake now and grinning. The badge said the guy's name was Dr. Patrick Watson.

"Doctor Watson? Like in Sherlock Holmes?" Patrick was chuckling now.

"Yeah," the medic grinned back at him. "Well done."

"Sorry, you must get that a lot."

"Not as much as you'd think," Watson replied. "May I take a quick look at you, Patrick?"

"Sure. I like your accent. Where are you from?"

The doctor was turning Patrick's face, taking a good look before gently probing his lip and jaw, then starting to check over the rest of him. "Australia," he said chattily as he did so. "I come from a city called Adelaide, grew up in the suburbs there. I came to medical school here in California." The guy carried on looking him over, finding a few faded bruises on his arms. "Where did you get these?" he asked.

"Um, those two were on a theme park ride and that one in gym class, I think," Patrick replied, pointing.

"Would you mind taking off your t-shirt, Patrick?" Watson asked. Patrick shrugged then slipped off his vest, tugged his t-shirt off over his head, goosebumps immediately covering his skin. "Sorry about that," Watson continued conversationally, "there's a nasty draft through here."

"I love the way you said that," Patrick grinned, "nasty draft," he added, trying to imitate the doctor's voice.

It was Watson's turn to chuckle. "Nearly. I would say 'nasty draft', like that? You were more 'nasty draft', you sounded more like a Brit than an Aussie," Watson explained.

"Nasty draft. There's a nasty draft in here," Patrick repeated.

"There certainly is," the doctor smiled. "You have a good ear for voices. You gonna be an actor?"

"I don't think so," Patrick replied cautiously.

"How did you get this?" Watson had been examining a broad scrape down his stomach. Patrick must have picked that up when he slipped at the edge of the Brodies' porch earlier that evening. It had barely bled but his whole abdomen was looking very red now under the harsh hospital lights. Suddenly wary, Patrick said nothing.

"Did it happen the same time you got this?" the doctor asked, indicating his lip. Patrick remained silent. "Patrick, with your permission I'd like to make a more thorough examination to make sure that someone hasn't hurt you more seriously. I'll just step outside the curtain and you can take off your jeans and shorts–"

"What? No!" What the hell?

"I'll get a nurse in here, Patrick, so you're not alone with me when I examine you."

"No way, man! I'm not hurt anywhere else!"

"Then could you tell me how you got these injuries, Patrick?"

"It's just a scrape! It's not on my ass!"

"Patrick," Watson's tone had turned gentle, "it's okay, you haven't done anything wrong. If someone's been hurting you we can make it stop but I need to examine–"

"The only thing that's been hurting my ass is that bike seat! You need my permission, right?" Patrick narrowed his eyes. "You can't make me strip?"

"No, I can't, but–"

"You do not have my permission. I refuse permission. I am not giving my permission for any more examining. Is that clear enough? No permission. We're done here." Patrick started retrieving his clothes.

"Can I at least get a nurse to clean these up, Patrick?" Watson asked mildly, indicated his stomach, his lip. "The skin's broken, there's a risk of infection if they aren't cleaned up properly." Patrick had been about to put his shirt back on. He put it back down and nodded tersely. "Okay then," Watson nodded. "I'll send someone through as soon as I can. You can get into bed if you feel cold while you're waiting." Watson took a final look then he was gone, sliding the curtain back behind him with a loud rattle.

His split lip gave the cops a plausible story: boy runs away because foster carer hit him. The improbable truth of what happened this evening wasn't anywhere near as believable and was surely as damning for Taylor as the plausible lie was for Brodie. Patrick had no idea what the doctor had been thinking but his expression when he saw the scrape on his stomach had been incongruously serious considering how minor it was.

It took a moment before Patrick remembered he didn't want to care how bad things would look for Taylor. He did though. He felt upset, _betrayed_, he knew he was acting like a sucker and still, _still_ he couldn't find it in himself to hate Taylor enough to get him into trouble with the law. Tonight had turned into a nightmare and whatever he said – or refused to say – it was getting worse.

Patrick shivered then yawned hugely. He was too tired. He needed to sleep. He'd be able to think once he got some _sleep_. He contemplated getting into this hospital bed but wondered if that was a ruse to get him to undress for that examination. Instead he ripped the blanket off the bed and was wrapping it around himself when at the edge of his hearing someone said his name. One of the cops was asking someone about him.

"The injuries I saw were very minor," that was Watson's distinctive voice, "but the boy won't let me complete my examination. I can't force him. We could ask his parents–"

"That's not an option, kid's in care." That sounded like the older cop.

"What's bugging you, doc?" the other cop asked.

"Look, I only just qualified, right? It's not like I have a lot of experience in this kind of thing. I paged Dr. Rao, she'll be along as soon as she can and she'll have a better idea than me, okay?"

"What do _you_ think, doc?"

"You thought the kid might have been assaulted, because you saw his lip? Like I said, it's very minor, doesn't even need a dressing, we'll clean him up and he'll be good to go. He's also got a broad scrape right up his abdomen. Again it's very minor but put the two together... I saw something similar a few times as a medical student in San Francisco, never on a child though. In the STI clinic there when we came across minor ventral injuries with vertical striations the nurses called it 'rent boy rash', not an infection, it's what you'd see if the patient had been pressed against a rough surface and..." Watson dropped his voice and must have mimed something, judging by the 'aw man!' protest from one of the cops.

"Okay, we get the picture." That was the older cop.

So did Patrick, listening with increasing horror to what the doctor was saying. The term 'rent boy' was new to him but the context was unmistakable. The guy thought _that? _About _him? _

"Both injuries happened around the same time, which is also consistent with that kind of molestation."

"Or the kid climbed a tree recently and slipped." This was the older cop again.

"Absolutely, he might have climbed a tree," the doctor agreed. "As I said, you really need to speak to my supervisor. Dr. Rao will be here as soon as she can. The kid was happy to tell me how he got some older bruises on his arms, his story was consistent with the age of those bruises and their location, completely normal in an eleven year old boy –"

"APB said he was thirteen," the first cop interrupted.

"Really? He looks younger. But okay, still normal. The lip and the stomach? He just clammed up. Wouldn't say a word. And if he climbed a tree it was in the dark, that scrape is very fresh, happened some time in the last couple of hours. Now if you'll excuse me, a doctor's work is never done." Patrick heard footsteps disappear into the background noise of the ER. Shit shit shit! Just when he thought things couldn't possibly get worse!

"What do you think, Manny?" The younger cop sounded way too eager for Patrick's liking.

"That doctor looked like he just stepped out of kindergarten." Scorn dripped from Manny's every word. "He couldn't even tell how old the kid was. I want to hear what the other doctor has to say before I think anything. We had a kid up a tree overnight last month, remember? Maybe chasing kids up trees is a new gang initiation thing. Some guy hitting his foster kid? Hell yeah, that happens. A rent boy _that_ young, out _alone_ in the middle of the night? Where's his pimp? Or a kid who's just been molested runs away? Maybe, but on a racing bike? Did you see the seat on that thing? I don't buy it," he said. Patrick smiled when he heard this, lopsidedly because of his lip. The guy might be a cop but skeptical was good. Patrick was warming to Manny.

The nurse arrived at that moment to clean him up. Patrick had dressed himself and was sitting on the edge of the bed by the time the lady doctor stepped through the curtains. She cast an eye over the clipboard, deftly looked over his lip and jaw, asked him to lift his shirt to examine the scrape over his stomach then came straight to the point.

"Patrick Jane. Did the policemen bring you here because of the injury to your face?"

"Yes ma'am."

"They wanted a doctor to check you weren't more seriously injured."

"I'm not."

"They picked you up because your foster parents reported you missing?"

"I guess so, ma'am."

"Did you sneak out of the front door or the window when you ran away this evening?"

"I didn't run away!"

Rao raised her eyebrows but simply asked again, "Window or door?"

"Uh, window, ma'am."

"Down a tree or onto the porch roof?"

"Um. Up over the house roof, then down onto the porch roof."

"Complicated," she nodded. "So did you slip on the edge of the house roof or the porch roof?"

"The porch roof, ma'am."

Dr. Rao continued talking as she scribbled something on the clipboard.

"Harder to climb down when there's a big gap underneath, huh? You might want to consider using the door next time you decide not to run away. There's a reason people have doors in their houses, much less risky to life and limb." The doctor's manner was deadpan but Patrick had the impression she was amused. "Do you understand what 'molestation' means, Patrick?" Rao asked, turning back to her patient.

"Yes ma'am," Patrick replied.

"Have you been molested this evening or at any other time?"

"No ma'am."

"Will you change into this gown and let me confirm that with a very quick examination, Patrick? I'm not supposed simply to take your word for it." Rao held up a hospital gown and added, "the opening goes at the back." Reluctantly Patrick took the gown and Rao nodded. "I'll just step outside the curtain while you change. Would you like to have a nurse here too when I examine you?"

"No, thank you, ma'am."

True to her word, the examination was very quick and not as invasive as Patrick had feared. As she stripped off her gloves Rao asked, "Why wouldn't you let Dr. Watson examine you, Patrick?"

"He didn't say he thought I'd been molested. There's nothing wrong with my ass, I wasn't gonna let that quack anywhere near it without a good reason."

The lady doctor looked as though she was barely restraining a smile. "Okay, I'm discharging you now, Patrick. Get changed, I'll let the policemen know. Once you're dressed you can go with them."

Rao swished the curtain closed behind her. Beyond it Patrick could hear her reassuring the cops that she'd examined him thoroughly and that he'd told her he got the injuries sneaking out of his room. When they got into the patrol car Mike called the dispatcher and was told to take Patrick to his foster parents' house, not the station house, and hand him over to the social worker there.

"Looks like we're taking you home after all, kid," Manny said, turning around to watch Patrick as he said it.

"Good," was the only reply Patrick could find. He wanted to go to bed, not hang around talking to cops. Many gave Mike a significant look before they pulled out into the street.

The Brodies and Lazczyck were all on the porch as the patrol car pulled up. Sally Brodie radiated anxiety and relief, even from this distance. Lazczyck met the cops on the sidewalk and had a brief, quiet word with Manny while Mike retrieved the bike from the trunk then helped Patrick out of the car.

"You with CPS? Here ya go, safe and sound," Mike said to Lazczyck as he handed Patrick over to her.

"Thank you, Officer Powell," she replied, putting her hand on Patrick's shoulder, then turned back to the other cop. "Thanks for the heads up, Officer Diaz. Leave it with me. I'll send you a copy of my report when it's done."

"We still need a statement–"

"It can wait until tomorrow." Lazczyck was very firm. "Right now this child needs to get some sleep and in my professional opinion it is safe for him to do so here."

"Yes, ma'am," Manny replied, looking rather abashed. "G'night, Patrick." The older cop got back into the patrol car.

"C'mon, Patrick," Lazczyck said, guiding him to the front door. He glanced bleary-eyed at the Brodies and Sally let out a gasp that was almost a sob. She came up then, put her hand on his cheek and gazed intently at his face.

"Oh dear God, Patrick, have you been in a fight? Where did you go? What happened to you?" Patrick could see tears in her eyes. He hadn't even considered she might be upset by all this. The sight reminded him how upset he was feeling about what Taylor had shouted at him. Too tired to hold back, he felt tears in his own eyes. Shit, was he going to cry now? He pulled away, blinking rapidly, and headed inside.

Patrick had been hoping to go straight to bed but instead Lazczyck guided him into the kitchen. There were three half-empty mugs on the table, a little steam still rising from them.

"Would you like a drink, Patrick?" Lazczyck asked.

"No, ma'am," Patrick managed, yawning and using it as an excuse to rub his eyes dry.

"It's okay, Patrick," Lazczyck hadn't noticed. "I just have a couple of questions then you can go to bed. If you'll excuse us for a moment?" she added to the Brodies, who had followed them into the kitchen. Patrick looked at Lazczyck as he yawned again.

"Did William or Sally hit you today, Patrick?" Lazczyck asked as soon as the kitchen door closed.

"No, ma'am," Patrick responded straight away. He looked bone-tired but he didn't look like he was lying or covering anything up.

"Then can you tell me why you ran away?"

"I didn't run away."

"You weren't in your bed when Sally checked on you after all the guests went home."

"I'd like to be there now," Patrick deflected, yawning again.

Okay, that could wait, her initial assessment couldn't. She returned to her main theme. "Did anyone else in this house hit you, Patrick? A Thanksgiving guest or one of the other foster kids, maybe?"

"No, ma'am." Again it had the ring of truth.

"How did you get that cut on your lip, Patrick?"

"It's –" Patrick yawned hugely, "it's a long story. Please, can't I go to bed now? I'm really tired. I'll tell you all about it, but tomorrow, okay? Please?"

Long story. Lazczyck had already filled in the blanks in her own head. Kid sneaks out after dark, kid gets in fight. Maybe it was over a girl, even though the kid looked a bit too young. She could substitute 'drugs' or something similar for 'girl' in that scenario but she didn't think so, there was no hint of drug use in Patrick's bedroom or his demeanor and anyway the cops or the hospital would surely have picked up on that. In any case that story could wait. Patrick wasn't acting like an abused kid, Lazczyck knew the Brodies well, had never really suspected one of them had hit the boy and he denied it was them too. Kids snuck out at night for all kinds of stupid reasons. The longer the story the less sense it made, in her experience.

"Okay. You can go to bed now."

"Thank you, ma'am," Patrick replied, standing up.

"I will need to hear that story tomorrow, " Lazczyck warned as they headed out of the kitchen. Sally and William were in the hallway.

"He's all yours," Lazczyck smiled at their anxious faces. "My initial assessment is that he's at no risk here. I need to do the usual investigation for a runaway but right now I think we could all do with some sleep. I'll call you tomorrow. Goodnight, Sally." Lazczyck gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Don't worry! From here on I'm sure it's just a formality. Goodnight Will," she added, shaking his hand.

As Lazczyck left, Sally drew Patrick into a big hug. Patrick hadn't encouraged such intimacy from the Brodies but this felt... comforting rather than intrusive. Although he wished they hadn't called in the cops he was rather touched by their concern.

"We were so worried about you! Thank God you're safe. Why did you sneak out like that? Where did you go?" Sally babbled.

"Tomorrow, Sal. Stella's right, we all need to get some sleep. We'll get to the bottom of things tomorrow." Brodie hugged his wife's shoulder affectionately before turning to Patrick.

"Bed, young man." Williams voice was severe but betrayed relief, not anger. "And no matter what your reasons were for sneaking out, you're grounded. One week. No arguments."

Patrick nodded mutely. Brodie's expression softened as he gently grasped Patrick's shoulders and turned him to the stairs. Again Patrick was struck how comforting it was just having that brief moment of contact.

"You look dead on your feet, Patrick." Brodie's voice was much kinder now. "Come on... here you go... up the last few stairs... and here's your room. Goodnight, Patrick."

"G'night, sir."

* * *

"I guess last night was even longer for you than I thought," Taylor managed weakly when Patrick finished telling this story.

"It was, uh, four-ish, I guess, when I finally got to sleep. I got up an hour ago."

Taylor nodded into the silence. "Did you really clean me up on the floor in the hallway? You and one of your teachers?" Taylor sounded mortified.

"Ms. Jepson, yeah."

"Dear God. And that young doctor really thought..."

"Yeah."

"Dear God," Taylor repeated.

"I'm supposed to go to the Sheriff's office with Brodie today to give a statement."

"What did you tell the Brodies?"

"Nothing yet. They told me I was grounded and sent me to bed, like I said. I slept all day, only just got up. He let me have breakfast and this," Patrick indicated his mug of tea, smiling wryly with the side of his mouth that wasn't sore, "before his little chat. I guess it's Brodie's version of a last cigarette for the condemned man. Mrs. Brodie took the others out for the day."

"Would you like me to–" Taylor didn't get to the end of his offer, Patrick didn't get the chance to refuse because at that moment Brodie stepped onto the porch.

"Patrick, I – Oh! Hello, Simon. I, uh, I didn't realise Patrick had called you. I guess I should have expected it. I was just going to ask him about last night then take him down to the Sheriff's office, they need to interview him about it. Stella's agreed to meet us there this afternoon, too, she needs to get the ball rolling on her runaway report."

"I didn't run away," Patrick said immediately.

Brodie looked at Taylor and then back at Patrick. "Uh, Patrick, you know you didn't have to call Mr. Taylor, right? You're not in any more trouble." Brodie turned to Taylor. "We grounded him until Wednesday for breaking curfew, that's all. You'll even be able to have your usual poker game with him next Thursday. I'm sorry you've been called out on a bit of a wild goose chase, Simon. The police just need a statement from Patrick about last night because we reported him missing and they picked him up. Then we'll go through the usual CPS investigation for when a foster child runs away."

"I didn't run away," Patrick said again.

"CPS still have to investigate, Patrick. We didn't know where you were last night, technically that's running away. The police picked you up, that's why they want a statement from you, too. As we're being investigated I can't accompany you –"

"_You're_ being investigated, Mr. Brodie?" Patrick interrupted. He'd thought that had all been sorted out at the hospital, what was that lady doctor's name again?

"By child protective services, not the police," Brodie replied, as though this was some kind of consolation.

"I'm – I'm sorry, Will." Patrick had no idea his sneaking out could cause this kind of trouble for the Brodies. Hadn't Tran said foster kids sneak out all the time at night at the group home?

Brodie was touched by Patrick's words. "It's okay, Patrick, I'm sure it'll be fine. We couldn't understand why the police didn't bring you straight home when they picked you up until we saw you last night but Stella's initial assessment was that you're not at risk here. That's why you're allowed to stay with us during her investigation. She'll sit with you while you give your statement to the Sheriff because I'm not supposed to if I'm being investigated. Afterwards she'll have her own questions for you–"

"I don't want Ms. Lazczyck to sit with me. I only met her three times, she doesn't know me." Patrick's mind was buzzing now. Lazczyck wouldn't understand Brodie letting him play cards with Taylor, would she? Coupled with an investigation, what kind of trouble could that cause? The kind that ended with Patrick being moved somewhere else, maybe? The same group home as Tran might not be so bad although... Patrick liked being cared for by the Brodies because they so clearly _cared_. For him. Sally might be a bit too much but even she had backed off and begun treating him less like a little kid. William Brodie... Patrick was only now realising how much he had come to like Brodie. He wasn't a friend like Taylor and he would never be an accomplice like Jepson but he went out of his way to understand Patrick rather than try to force him to conform to Brodie's idea of normal. Suddenly the extra independence he might gain from being at a group home didn't seem worth what he would lose if he had to leave here. It finally occurred to Patrick that he had still thought of Taylor as a friend just then. He looked over to the lawyer.

"Paddy," Taylor was looking very serious now, "I don't think I can sit with you when the police take your statement."

Because it had actually been Taylor, not Brodie, who hit him, Patrick realized.

This made Brodie look curiously at them both. Five minutes ago Patrick would have objected to Taylor's help anyway, now it felt as though he had burned his last bridge without even noticing. What the hell did they want him to say to the police and child protective services? The believable lies would cause trouble for Brodie but the truth would surely have repercussions for Taylor and himself as well. Taylor was still speaking.

"As a minor you need an adult with you, as it can't be Will or his wife, or myself, I think Ms. Lazczyck is your best option."

"You could sit in on the police interview if you want, Simon..." Brodie tailed off when he saw Taylor's expression. "Can't you? What happened last night?"

"Paddy snuck out after his curfew last night in order to –" Taylor began.

"Wait!" Patrick practically shouted. "Can I have a word with my lawyer, Mr. Brodie, before we all talk about last night? Please?"

"Inside," Brodie said firmly, looking from one to the other before leading the way. Taylor was certain Patrick had been about to refuse his offer of help earlier before Brodie interrupted.

Brodie ushered them into the study then closed the door and turned to face them both, looking stubborn and folding his arms across his chest. "I want to know what happened last night," he said. "We've been very patient, Patrick, but your time's run out."

"Just five minutes, please, sir," Patrick was practically begging. "I'll tell you everything if you just give us five minutes."

"Five minutes," Brodie repeated as he opened the study door, "then I want to know everything."

"What happens if I tell the truth?" Patrick began in a quiet but urgent voice as soon as the door closed. "How much trouble am I in? Zack nearly called the cops on me last night. He knows I broke into your house, he thought I might have, I dunno, knocked you unconscious."

"You're not in trouble with the law right now, Paddy, and whatever happens I'm not going to press charges for unlawful entry when the only reason you broke in was to make sure I was okay."

"What about you? Last night Jepson was going to call the cops or child protective services just because I was there and you were drunk. You did this," Patrick gestured to his face and Taylor winced. "If I say that to Brodie and the cops won't you get in trouble?"

"Well, it depends."

Patrick rolled his eyes. "On what?"

"You're a minor so you don't get the final say on having me charged with assault, Will does. If he wants to press charges he doesn't have a very strong case because you did break in. My lawyer will want to claim I was defending myself during a home invasion."

"Your lawyer?"

"I'm a fool in many ways, Paddy, but I would never try defending myself in a court of law. Anyway, arguing self defense for me would reopen your can of worms and add more worms. Home invasion is worse than a simple unlawful entry, it's a crime with a lot of media attention at the moment. I still wouldn't press charges but the DA almost certainly would, if my defense was successful – and as I said, I think it would be successful. I'd testify on your behalf but that might not be enough to keep you out of juvenile hall."

"Shit! Sorry, sir," Patrick added

"No, that's a reasonable response. I think... I rather think it would be the best outcome all round if Will doesn't press charges against me for assault. I won't press charges for the break-in and I'm as sure as I can be that the DA won't want to prosecute anyone in that event. You had a good reason to break in. I had a very poor excuse for – for doing that." It was Taylor's turn to gesture at Patrick's face. "I am so very sorry I hurt you," he said quietly.

Patrick shook his head dismissively. "It didn't hurt. I didn't even notice until later."

Taylor hesitated for a moment then continued.

"I expect the worst that'll happen in that case is that I get a reprimand for 'disreputable behavior' from the California Bar. Maybe a fine, if I'm unlucky about who's on the panel."

"A bar says lawyers aren't allowed to get drunk?" Patrick was baffled.

"If that was the case there'd be no lawyers," Taylor quipped at Patrick's confusion. "Our professional licencing body is called the California Bar Association, it's 'bar' as in 'barrister', an old word for a legal advocate. The association's 'moral character' rules say we're not supposed to do anything to bring the profession into disrepute, even when we're drunk. In practice that means we're not supposed to get caught." Taylor's lips were twitching upwards as he said this. "So long as I'm not convicted of assaulting a minor, simply being arrested for assault isn't enough to be barred from the Bar."

"I don't want you to be arrested, Mr. Taylor."

Taylor looked at him. "You want to give me a second chance, Paddy? You still want to be friends?"

Patrick considered this for a moment. He wasn't a 'second chance' kind of person. All through this he hadn't felt able to hate Taylor but he didn't know how things could just go back to the way they were before.

"What you shouted, that was worse than hitting me," Patrick said, feeling suddenly vulnerable at this admission.

Taylor stared down at his shoes for a long moment. He nodded slowly as he looked up again.

"I think I understand. I saw your lip and your unhappiness and I connected the wrong dots, didn't I? I guess you must have been called a lot of things by kids in the towns you visited over the years."

"Yeah. Not just kids." Patrick sounded subdued.

"So when I shouted what I did... Jesus. I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

"Listen to me, s– Paddy. I never thought I was better than you."

"You can call me 'son'. I was angry with you before but – but lots of adults call me that. It's okay if you want to call me that."

"Thank you, Paddy." Taylor's sounded surprised. "I shouted at you because I was scared. I... I liked becoming your friend. People my age, well, easy friendships are harder to come by as you get older. You don't get to my age without carrying some baggage that gets in the way. The more you got to know me the harder it became to open those bags."

"I think I'd like to try, Mr. Taylor. Second chances, I mean. I don't have much practice. Dad and Lily and me, we've never been big on 'forgive and forget.'"

Taylor had to look away. Patrick had again casually let drop something about his family that was greatly moving to him. He cleared his throat. "In the circumstances, Paddy, I think you can call me 'Simon'. If you feel you want to," he added, looking nervous.

"Simon." Patrick rolled the name around his mouth then unexpectedly grinned, lopsided but with genuine mirth. "Did you really make princes play cards in your kitchen, Simon?"

"One middle-eastern prince, yes. He looked like he'd never been inside a kitchen in his life."

"Why?"

"Because I always held card games there. Damaris – my wife – said it was because I was stubborn. Truth is, I knew rich and powerful folks would be out of their element in a kitchen. Either they'd be uncomfortable, like that prince was, because it wasn't somewhere they went much, or they'd be lulled into a false sense of security by the domesticity of it all. Either of those gave me an advantage at cards."

Patrick chuckled, nodding. "I'll go fetch Mr. Brodie back, Simon. I think I'll be able to persuade him not to press charges. Last night, well, the story of last night could be kinda funny, if I tell it right. At the moment it looks as bad as I do. I just need to make him see it as a, a comedy of errors. I think that won't be too hard. He's not gonna believe what that Australian doctor thought about me."

* * *

Brodie was angry, at first. Taylor had confessed to accidentally striking Patrick as soon as Brodie returned to the study, before Patrick could get a word in. Brodie then asked Patrick to give them a moment alone and Patrick did, heading into the kitchen and listening to muffled shouting give way to talking before both men appeared at the kitchen door to invite him back into the study.

Taylor apologised yet again, this time to Brodie as well as Patrick. In turn Patrick explained that it really had been an accident, that he had barely felt it at the time. He didn't mention that was because he had been too upset by what Taylor had shouted at him, instead launching straight into his story. It wasn't wildly distorted but he changed minor details to emphasise the absurdity of everything that happened while at the same time minimizing his own sense of panic and distress. Brodie's lips first twitched when Patrick was describing his reaction to the stink when he opened the door.

"Just wait until the first time you have to change a diaper," Brodie muttered as Patrick paused, which made him grin into the man's eyes in a moment of solidarity. Patrick lavishly described his dismay at having to clean up Taylor with extensive use of euphemism and metaphor and was gratified that Brodie snorted in amusement. When Patrick went on to describe himself in the rubber gloves and apron, wielding a long-handled scrubbing brush from the bathroom and wishing he had goggles Brodie couldn't help giving a brief chuckle. It helped that Taylor played along, groaning in embarrassment, hiding his face in his hands and generally mugging his way through the story. Taylor was beyond impressed. This was essentially the same story he had just heard but it was as if he was hearing it for the first time, from a comedian on Saturday Night Live rather than a tragedy being showcased on Oprah.

Patrick's description of himself, halfway over the edge of the porch roof, legs kicking into empty air as he tried to find a way down before he slowly slid into an ignominious heap had both Taylor and Brodie laughing. Jepson was cast as the cavalry, swooping in to the rescue while Zack was given the role of Columbo: Patrick even had him asking 'one more thing'. Patrick's comedy-Frankenstein impersonation of Taylor waking up lent credence to their claim it had been an accident and had Taylor groaning with embarrassment again. Patrick diverted attention away from the sordid suspicions of the young doctor by starting a long, off the wall discourse on the imagined meanings and possible origin of the term 'rent boy' from his own supposed point of view, an innocent kid trying to figure out a conversation between adults, which unexpectedly had Brodie laughing out loud.

"So, y'see, Will, it all ended up in a big mess. Everything I did to avoid trouble just ended in more trouble," Patrick concluded. "I could get into real trouble, now. Juvenile Hall-style trouble."

"Is that true, Simon?"

"I think it's possible. No matter how good his reason, the fact remains that Patrick broke in. In my experience a jury won't convict a homeowner for taking a swing at someone who broke into their home, no matter what his age. However if I use that defense then that puts Patrick in the frame for home invasion, not just unlawful entry. The DA would most likely prosecute that charge even though I don't want to press charges, they'd simply subpoena me as a hostile witness."

"Why... why didn't you call here, Patrick?"

Patrick looked Brodie in the eye.

"I thought you'd stop me ever going to Simon's house again if I told you he was passed out drunk. I thought you'd call the Sheriff because I broke in, too."

"God, what a mess," Brodie sighed.

"Was I wrong?" Patrick asked.

"I would have done both those things a month ago. Now? I honestly don't know, Patrick. You seem so at ease at Simon's place on Thursdays, more than you ever are here. I don't want to take that away from you, even though I'm still mad about what he put you through last night. Breaking in to help a friend... If ever there was a good reason to break into someone's home, you had it."

Silence descended between the three of them for a long moment. Finally Patrick broke it.

"So what should I tell the cops and child protective services?"

Brodie replied first. "You tell them the truth."

"Yes, the truth," Taylor agreed.

Patrick looked from one to the other in disbelief.

"You seriously want me to tell the cops I broke into your big, fancy house and all I did was tidy the lounge and wash the plates? They are never, and I mean never, gonna believe that story, not if it's just Ms. Lazczyck sitting next to me. The story they'll believe is 'foster parent smacks delinquent kid' or 'delinquent kid breaks in to rob a house and the homeowner lands one on him.' As soon as I mention picking the lock they're all gonna peg me for a juvenile delinquent, including Ms. Lazczyck."

"I'm sure that's not the case –" Brodie began.

"Really, Mr. Brodie? When you first met me, you thought I was a thief." Brodie looked as though Patrick had just slapped him in the face. Patrick turned to Taylor. "I might not have a lot of life experience, Simon, but I have plenty of experience of which stories are believable and which aren't. I have plenty of experience of being me."

"Okay, I can see where you're coming from, Paddy."

"What? You think Patrick should lie?" Brodie's ire was clear in his voice.

"No," Taylor was all business now. "The narrative for last night has to be 'panicking kid' not 'delinquent kid.' You weren't trying to stay out of trouble, you were panicking and not thinking clearly. An adult would have called 9-1-1 but it's reasonable that a child who was in a panic might not do that. Cleaning, tidying, that all happened after your teacher arrived, yes? She didn't call 9-1-1 because she knew how to deal with a drunk so instead she organised the clean-up in which you participated."

"Even if I was panicking at first, I went back after curfew, sir. I told Ms, Jepson that I had to return here by ten, but said I'd come back to your house afterwards."

"Did she tell you not to?"

"Uh, she said she didn't want me sneaking out on my foster parents."

"Close enough. That lets her off the hook. She told you not to sneak back but you did anyway. Later in the evening you're no longer panicking but you are so concerned about – about my wellbeing that you disobey your teacher and break your foster parents' curfew in order to sneak back to my house." Taylor blinked and his tone softened. "Thank you, Paddy. I don't think I ever thanked you for looking after me last night."

Patrick acknowledged this with a silent nod before continuing.

"Won't that drag Ms. Jepson into all this?"

"I'll call her, let her know the police may get in touch with her."

"She won't be happy about it."

"She may not even be called on by the police. The details they're concerned about are you breaking in and me assaulting you."

"Erm, I told Jepson we play chess on Thursdays."

"Yeah, Junior mentioned it. That was before you returned here, yes? Then you were still panicking, even more so when you unexpectedly found a teacher from your school on my doorstep. You weren't thinking straight. You acted like any regular kid would when caught doing something your teacher wouldn't like. You said the first thing that came into your head. At the station house you can tell them you're coming clean about that now because you know telling a lie to the police is more serious than making up a story for a teacher."

"You know I didn't believe what Patrick said about you until now," Brodie interrupted, looking furious. "Weeks ago, before I agreed to let him go play cards on Thursdays he told me you were a good liar but I didn't see it until now. You said Patrick should tell the truth!"

"Every word is true, Will," Taylor replied evenly. "This is what lawyers do, we make the truth sound as plausible and as favorable as we can." Taylor continued steadily looking at Brodie as he asked Patrick, "Were you in fact calm and collected when you saw me on the floor through the window, Paddy?"

"No, sir. I was scared and I didn't know what to do. Ms. Jepson even commented on it later, said I sounded like I was freaking out when I called her on the phone. Um, she's mad at you, too."

"Which I richly deserve. I'm not proud of how I behaved yesterday, Will, but what I'm doing now isn't lying and I'm not ashamed of it. 'Scared and didn't know what to do' sounds like panic to me. Would you say you were happy when you saw Jepson get out of her car, Paddy?"

"No sir. I called her to get advice over the phone. I didn't tell her where I was calling from so I was kinda spooked when she turned up on your doorstep."

"Although we wouldn't condone it, I think we can all understand how a child who is 'kinda spooked' by the sudden, unexpected appearance of a teacher from their school might make up such a story on the spur of the moment. Why did you sneak out and return to my house after your curfew?"

"I guess I needed to see for myself that you were gonna be okay. I told Ms. Jepson she could go home once I got back to your house, but then she decided she didn't want to leave me alone with a – with you, Simon."

Taylor nodded. "She sounds like a very sensible woman. Whatever happens, I'm not going to press charges against Patrick," Taylor was addressing Brodie now. "If you don't press charges either, Will, then I'm as sure as I can be that the DA won't be interested in prosecuting anyone. I'll pass on a copy of the police case file to the Bar Association and get a professional reprimand, maybe a fine. What about you, Will?"

"You don't want me to press charges for assault, do you, Patrick?" Brodie sounded resigned.

"No sir. It was an accident."

"Then I will go along with your wishes. For Patrick's sake, not yours, Simon," he added.

"But you're still in trouble with child protective services, Will." Patrick sounded concerned.

"Last night Stella wasn't impressed when I told her I take you to play cards on Thursdays, or that I let you go there on your own last night. We did the right thing when we discovered that you were gone so Stella's runaway report is a formality but she might still have something to say about what we allow you to do in your spare time."

"Now you're in trouble with Lazczyck because you let me go to see Simon and play cards? As well as because I snuck out? And you're still in the frame for hitting me. The cops thought it was you, Will."

"Well, that's why we need to go clear things up, Patrick. The police will take all our statements, then Simon and I will both refuse to press charges."

"That still leaves Lazczyck and child protective services."

"I wouldn't normally allow a child I was fostering to play cards or go out at night alone, but you're not a run-of-the-mill teenager, Patrick. I made my decisions, I'll deal with any consequences. That's what grown-ups do."

Patrick stared at Brodie as if he was crazy. "But it's my fault," Patrick said wretchedly. "I made you let me play cards, and go over to Simon's house last night. I snuck out. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Would you permit me to make a suggestion, Will?" Taylor interrupted.

Brodie's face was wary but he said, "Sure, go ahead."

"Patrick works in showbusiness. I happen to know that California child protective services can show, well, a certain flexibility when it comes to children who work in showbiz. They often have skills or are exposed to circumstances that might not be appropriate for regular kids. Think about child stunt doubles, say, in the movie business."

"That's... actually that's helpful, Simon. I mean, that was the reason I started letting him play cards with you in the first place. He, uh, showed me a card trick. A good one."

"But it's still my fault! Not yours!"

"You didn't make me do anything, Patrick," Brodie replied gently. "It was my decision. Like I said, adults take responsibility for their decisions."

"The courts deal with grown-ups who try to avoid the consequences of their actions all the time, Paddy. The lesson you can take from last night is that trying to wriggle out of a tar pit just makes you sink faster."

Patrick didn't agree, though he didn't say so. The lesson he had taken from last night was to get better at wriggling. Or at anticipating people's actions and reactions: the Brodies' behavior had blindsided him again. Taylor thought Patrick was better than his dad at reading people? All he needed was more experience? One person could only experience so much but a wise boy learns from other people's experiences, not just his own. Taylor had a lot of life experience, so did Alex. Brodie and Sally had different kinds of experience, of ordinary life and work and family, and if his stint in care had taught him anything it was that his kind of normal was very different to the majority. Older people like passing on their experience, too. Being a good listener could help Patrick with more than just the pursuit of girls.


	22. Chapter 22

Brodie had offered to drive them all to the Sheriff's office; Taylor had insisted that they stop at his house on the way. Zack was surprised to see them all turn up at the doorstep, a little shocked to see the cut and bruises on Patrick's face. His dad had thought he might have hit the boy but Zack hadn't imagined it would look this bad.

"Jun – Zack," Taylor began, which made Zack drag his eyes from Patrick.

Hey Dad, what – what's going on?"

"There's been a change of plan, son. Uh, you already met Patrick Jane? This is his foster parent, Will Brodie. Will, this is my youngest son, Zack Taylor." Brodie and Zack shook hands in uneasy silence. "Will discovered Paddy snuck out after curfew last night. He reported him missing and Paddy was picked up by a patrol car after he left here."

"What?" Dismay filled Zack's face.

"I'm on my way to the Sheriff's office right now with Will and Paddy here, to clear up a few things," Taylor added blandly. "When Julie gets back from picking up Andrew at the airport could you send your brother down there? Andrew might be a little rusty on criminal law but he's qualified and he's family."

"No, dad, hold on a second." Zack suddenly sounded worried. "If you're going to hand yourself in on an assault and battery charge you should call one of your people: Frank, or Mary what's-her-name – the one you worked with on the Hinton case, someone who does criminal defense for a living –"

"It was an accident, Zack," Patrick cut in. "It looks worse than it is. We all agreed already, no-one's pressing charges: not against your dad, not against me."

"It's okay, son," Taylor resumed to Zack. "I will tell Frank, I promise, but I'd rather tell him on Monday when this is all sorted out. If I accompany Patrick and Will to the station house now it should be fine, although… thinking about it, it might be a good idea for you to accompany your brother. You were a witness to at least some of what happened last night. Patrick told me you nearly called the cops on him."

A guilty look flashed across Zack's face before he replied. "Yeah, dad, of course. You, uh, you know Julie won't stand for being left behind."

"You're probably right," Taylor conceded, "she's too much like her mom for that."

"I can come with you now if you want–"

"No, I'll be fine until you all show up. I'd prefer it if you stay here and wait for your brother and sister."

Zack hesitated before he said, reluctantly, "Okay, dad."

"Would you give us a minute?" Taylor asked Zack. "I just wanted to show Will and Patrick something before we head over to the station house."

* * *

The door which Taylor opened led to a bright ground floor room that was completely devoid of furniture, as though emptied in preparation for redecoration. As he followed Patrick inside Brodie couldn't understand why Taylor wanted them to see this. Patrick started out with a curious, interested expression but it rapidly changed to wary uneasiness. Patrick had clearly seen something but Brodie had no idea what it could be when there was nothing to see in here. Taylor stood silent in the doorway as Patrick looked around.

"This is… like a hospital room," Patrick said cautiously, looking at the position and shape of the faint indents in the linoleum floor. Brodie shot an astonished look at Patrick but said nothing.

"Yes. I rented the medical furniture and equipment. It's all been returned now."

"Your wife's room." Not a difficult call, the décor screamed feminine not masculine and Taylor's daughter was married. If she was ill it wouldn't be here.

"Damaris. Her name was Damaris. This was her favorite downstairs room. She loved to watch the sunset through that big window."

Past tense. Patrick hated that his first guess had turned out to be correct. How to phrase it? Taylor could tell Patrick knew, the man had entered the room now but stood looking out of the window with his back to them. Even Brodie seemed to be starting to understand that something was wrong here. There was no need to beat about the bush.

"She… died here."

Taylor turned slowly, nodded. "In May. Lung cancer." Brodie closed his eyes and bowed his head. Taylor was mourning the recent loss of his wife, poor guy. Hadn't he said his mom had died of TB when he was a kid? This must have been too similar to that 'terrible slow death of a loved one' about which the man had been so eloquent during their first visit. Brodie now wished he'd been less vocal with his anger at Taylor this afternoon.

"Thanksgiving was particularly special for her," Patrick continued. Not rocket science, it was special for everyone. Even Alex made an effort at Thanksgiving.

"Thanksgiving was on the twenty-sixth in nineteen fifty-three, too. Her twenty-first birthday was two days before. Her father threw her a big party. She told me afterwards she knew maybe one in ten of the people there." Taylor sounded bitter: he must have been left off the guest list. "We eloped on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, got married in Las Vegas that same day, had our honeymoon there. We saw Sinatra at the Sands." The ghost of a smile flicked across Taylor's face as he said this. A happier memory.

"This house was special to her too," Patrick resumed after a pause. Again he wasn't going out on a limb. A big fancy place like this would surely be pretty special to anyone lucky enough to live here. Add in even a moderately happy marriage, three children, they would tip the scales. Patrick did a quick calculation in his head: Taylor's wife had been ten years younger than him and they'd been married over thirty years.

"She was born here." Taylor noted Patrick's surprise. "Damaris Carson, as in Carson Springs? She was the fourth of the five Carson children. Damaris was an heiress when I first met her. Her great-grandfather owned a gold mine and founded this town. Her grandfather made another fortune in lumber and had this house built. When her father moved the rest of the family to southern California in the 'forties to make his own fortune from the oil fields down there, she and her mom and younger brother stayed on here in her grandpa's house for a while; something to do with their schooling, I think. Her grandpa gave this place to us – to her, really – as a wedding present."

"You married money?" Patrick asked, eyes wide.

"Not exactly. She was an heiress and I was a penniless law student when we first met. Wyndham Carson had made up his mind that all his daughters would marry wealthy men so you can imagine how he felt about me. He tried everything to separate us, even sending her away to school in Europe for a couple of years. He was sure I was only interested in her for her money. It was her idea to elope. Damaris was…" Taylor's voice faded and he shook his head. "She was the most amazing person I ever met." Taylor paused again for a long moment. "Anyway we needed her father's consent if we wanted to get married before she turned twenty-one and of course he refused. We waited for her twenty-first birthday then got married without it. Wyndham was so furious when he found out that he threatened to disown her if we didn't have the marriage annulled immediately.

"Well, Damaris wasn't going to stand for that, she could be even more determined than her father when she put her mind to it. They had a big showdown and afterwards he went through with it. Cut her off without a penny. Her grandpa had already given her this place, he arranged for her to have an allowance from his income while he was still alive but her father held the family purse strings. The old man couldn't leave her anything when he passed away a couple of years later and her father acted like she didn't exist to the day he died. One of my biggest regrets. Her mom and brother and sisters eventually came around but her father died in 'sixty-one without ever seeing her again. Damaris never cared about the money but I could tell she was sad about her father. I knew she would have liked things to be better between them."

Patrick could understand Taylor talking about something – anything – other than his wife's illness and death. It had been cunning of the man to pick this ancient family scandal about money. It had nearly worked, too: Patrick couldn't help being fascinated by wealth.

"I'm very sorry about the loss of your wife, Simon," Patrick said simply, to bring things back into the present. Alex had taught him the phrase – it was the most basic stuff, Psychic 101 – and Patrick, though long accustomed to being at ease around the bereaved, was always surprised when such formulaic words brought them comfort. Taylor nodded but didn't speak.

"You…" Patrick began, then hesitated. This was familiar, a mark who'd lost someone but didn't want to move on, or didn't know how. They could be very profitable. Taylor's wariness of Patrick seemed more justified now. Before he'd gotten to know the man, Patrick might indeed have played Taylor if he'd discovered the grief and loneliness that were writ large in this room. Several ways to exploit Taylor's vulnerability had crossed Patrick's mind even now – how could they not? – but he didn't want to talk to Taylor like a client even though he wasn't sure how else to approach him.

"I meet a lot of people in your position," Patrick restarted cautiously. He knew straight away he'd said the wrong thing and backtracked swiftly. "I know you don't want me talking to the spirit of your dead wife, believe me, but a lot of people do and they come to dad and me. It's because they're stuck, they don't know where to begin, trying to live without the person they lost. I think… I think you threw yourself into your work afterwards because you needed to keep busy. I think you haven't played poker with anyone in the last six months, until I came along. I think you're surprised that it's been as long as six months because it only feels like a few short weeks to you." Patrick could tell he was losing his audience when a sudden inspiration hit him. "I know you really don't want to talk to me about it, but you should talk to someone. Bottling up your feelings isn't healthy." Quoting Taylor's own words back to him had the effect Patrick hoped. All the tension drained from Taylor's shoulders and he looked Patrick in the eye for the first time since he opened the door to this room.

"Jeez, does everything I say sound so pompous?" Taylor asked.

"I would say 'authoritative,'" Patrick shot back.

"Save the flattery for when you're being paid, kid," Taylor growled, though his mouth twitched upwards as he said it. Patrick grinned back and Brodie finally felt able to speak without intruding.

"I'm really sorry, too, Simon. I had no idea. I–I shouldn't have shouted earlier."

"Thank you, Will; but I deserved it. No matter what, I had no right to put Patrick through the wringer last night." Taylor gave a deep breath. "Speaking of which, we all need to get to the Sheriff's office. Shall I call ahead, ask if officers Diaz and Powell can meet us there?"

* * *

Patrick and Brodie got back around six. Sally Brodie had taken the other kids to the mall for the day and it looked as though they had only just gotten back too, Sally was still unpacking bags of shopping from the car. Patrick made it to his room without having to talk to anybody but Liss appeared in the doorway just a moment later.

"Trick! What happened? Why didn't you come with us today? Sally just said you were too tired. Jeez, what happened to your face?" she added as he turned to her.

"Long story. Can I ask you a question first, Liss? If you snuck out of bed and went out after curfew and the Brodies found out, what would you expect them to do?"

"Will _hit_ you? Or – or was it Sally?"

"What? No! How could you say that! You've been here a year, do you really think the Brodies hit kids?"

Liss seemed taken aback by his vehemence. "Well, no, not really –"

"Good! I just need to understand, if you snuck out after curfew what would they do?"

"You snuck out last night? And they found out?" Liss's eyes widened. "If you went missing after going to bed? I'd, uh, I guess they'd report it to the police."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, 'why?' If a kid runs away it's a big deal. Where did you go? What happened to your face?"

Patrick nodded as he absently said, "I didn't run away." If a kid went missing at the carnival it was a big deal but at the carnival there was a real fast rumor mill, a lot of eyes and a willingness to search because missing kids were bad for business. In no time at all everyone would be looking for them. Missing kids were found pretty quickly, in Patrick's experience, with no need for any cops. "Don't neighbors search rather than the cops?"

Liss looked at him as though he was crazy. "Yeah neighbors might help, if you stay missing, but they'd call the cops first. Where did you go?"

Patrick supposed that made sense too. Neighbors might care but they weren't financially impacted by a kid going missing. Cops must have some kind of use to the average house-dweller, Patrick supposed. They couldn't possibly just issue speeding tickets, take backhanders and arrest Carny folks.

"I wanted to go back to Mr. Taylor's house."

"What? Why?"

"He was kinda ill when I was there earlier. I wanted to make sure he was okay."

"You could have just snuck downstairs and called him on the phone."

"Look, it really is a long story. The short version is that I promised someone I'd go back. They promised to look after him until I got back. I had to sneak out."

"So did they rewrite the rules again? There's a curfew unless your name is Patrick Jane and you're playing doctor for some old guy? Which is creepy, by the way."

Patrick let that one pass. "No, Liss, I'm grounded. For a week. How does that work?"

"You telling me you never been grounded before? Your jailbird dad is father of the year now?"

That jibe stung. A little louder than he intended Patrick retorted, "Hey, being grounded makes no sense when you live at the carnival. Sitting around doing nothing, that's a vacation, not a punishment."

Liss was suddenly wide-eyed. "Does he – does _he_ beat you?"

"No! Jeez! No-one beats me! Did your dad ever hit you?"

"No of course not," Liss retorted angrily.

"Well, then," Patrick said conclusively. "My dad yells a lot. I get extra chores. There's always plenty of work needs doing, in our trailer or for the show and there's only the two of us. The chores around here that you bitch about so much are nothing compared to what I have to do at home even when he isn't pissed at me."

"I don't bitch about the chores, you _skip_ them whenever you feel like it and Sally and Will _let_ you! Who do you think Sally asks to pick up the slack?"

"Oh, and you don't live here? You don't eat the food, you don't leave a mess behind wherever you go? I cook, I clean up after, I keep my things tidy and I don't have to be asked! Sally lets me off the chores sometimes because she knows I already did my share!"

"Well aren't you Mister Perfect! Oh, no, wait, that can't be you because you snuck out and now you're _grounded_ for a week."

Patrick took a deep breath. Liss had him playing her game again. She was good at provoking him – too good. He had to learn to stop rising to her bait.

"Please, Liss? Can we not do this? Please?" he begged quietly, allowing a defeated expression to appear on his face. "I got in so much trouble last night: teachers, cops, doctors. I've been beat up. I just got back from the Sheriff's office. I'm grounded for a week. I'm done. Please."

Liss stopped and looked at him, really looked.

"God, Trick," she said softly, "what _happened_ to you?"

Brodie appeared behind Liss before Patrick could reply.

"We've all had a busy day so Sally and I decided to get pizza delivered this evening," he announced. This was a rare treat and choosing the pizzas drove all thought of interrogating Patrick from Liss's mind. Patrick used the distraction to escape into the study and browse the bookshelves. Liss rarely came in here.

Patrick tried a couple of books but couldn't settle, his mind in a spin. Their trip to the Sheriff's office had been successful – no-one had been arrested, no-one was going to be prosecuted – but it had left him jittery. So had Liss. He didn't want it to become widely known that it was Taylor who had hit him. He'd come up with a mostly-true story – he woke a drunk guy who was having a nightmare and got a walloped by accident – which he could tell at school if his bruises hadn't faded by Monday. He'd try it out on Liss later. Still restless, Patrick returned the books to the shelves and headed to the kitchen, then stopped dead.

"…others are easy but not Patrick." That was Sally Brodie. Patrick paused, listening.

"Lets just ask him." Brodie replied. "His home life isn't exactly what I'd call normal. I'd hate to get something that isn't appropriate."

"What if he wants something inappropriate?"

Brodie chuckled. "That wasn't what I meant. I don't think Patrick would ask for a subscription to 'Playboy' magazine."

Sally barked out a laugh, too. "I'd forgotten Russ Bauer asked for that. Now he really was a handful."

"Yes he was, precocious in all the wrong ways." Patrick could hear the smile in Brodie's voice as he agreed with Sally.

"Patrick's the opposite of difficult, really, it's just…" Sally let out a long sigh.

"I know, Sal. Look, the only thing I'm sure of is that whatever we do, it won't be a surprise. I just want to make sure it's not a disappointment."

"In that case you're right. We should ask him."

They wanted to get him something, wanted to make sure it wasn't disappointing? Patrick didn't understand why, they'd grounded him after all, but this pause in their conversation seemed to be his cue. He strolled into the kitchen.

"Hi there," he began. "I guess being grounded means I can't take Paul and Jenni to the park over the weekend?"

"No, Patrick, not while you're grounded." There had been a flash of regret across Sally's face as she spoke. Patrick regularly took the youngsters to the little local playground, they would be missing out too for the next few days.

"But I still have to go to church tomorrow?" This was an ongoing bone of contention.

"Yes you do," Sally replied with a determined look.

"Speaking of which," this was Brodie, "the Sunday school gets a gift for every child at Christmas. You're due a bible. Is that okay?"

Some previous foster kid had asked their church for a subscription to Playboy instead of a bible? Patrick felt a flash of respect for the kid's chutzpah.

"What's the catch?"

Brodie was taken aback. "No catch. Every child gets something each year. Age six they get an illustrated children's Bible, age thirteen you'll be getting the NIV that the adults read at church. New International Version," Brodie added, "it's the latest translation of the bible."

Patrick thought about this for a moment.

"Can I have the old version instead?" he asked. "The one with all the 'thou shalt nots' in it? The one where all the famous quotes come from?"

"I don't see why not," Brodie replied, surprised.

"There isn't a lot of room back home. For books, I mean," Patrick began, hesitantly. "If it comes in different kinds then a paperback one would be best," Patrick continued. "Whatever's lightest."

"Sure, Patrick."

"Black with gold edges and gold lettering on the front, so it looks like a bible," Patrick continued, almost to himself. He was remembering the various preachers in tents that he'd seen in action over the years. They always wielded a bible. Something like that was the look he wanted for his dad.

"I'll mention it to Jim Wilson tomorrow, see what we can do. It's what's inside that's important, though, not what it looks like, you know that?" Brodie was pretty sure that Melissa had never opened the bible she got last year. He had expected Patrick to refuse a bible – he claimed to be an atheist after all – so was surprised and touched that Patrick not only wanted a particular version of the bible but also was planning on taking it with him when he left. He would have been less impressed if he had known Patrick was picturing his dad, wearing the new suit and brandishing a very bible-y looking book in their Tabernacle show next summer.

"Actually, Patrick, we had another question for you." Sally was smiling a little nervously. "Now Thanksgiving is over we started thinking about Christmas too. I don't know if you remember me saying this but we get an allowance for fostering you. Well, we put some aside for Christmas and we were wondering," she shot a glance at Brodie, "if you could give us an idea of what you'd like. As a gift. For Christmas."

"I do remember – but I'm a bit old for toys, ma'am."

"We know that, Patrick. We'd still like to get you something. Melissa said she wanted make-up when we were at the mall today. What would you like?"

"What Liss would really like is a beauty consultation at one of the big department stores." Patrick was stalling. "They're free but you have to book. The counter girls make you over and give you beauty tips. They give you the hard sell on their cosmetics, too, but if that's what she wants for Christmas then that's all good. It's a girl thing you could do together." Katy Barsocky had done just this with her mom before her wedding and both of them had been delighted with it. Liss was the girl the others went to for help with their make-up. Who could Liss ask? And Liss wanted some quality time with Sally even if she'd never admit it.

"I'm not sure Melissa would want to spend any more time with me at the moment," Sally smiled wryly, thinking about their trip to the mall that day.

"I think you're wrong," Patrick replied casually. When Sally looked rather taken aback he went on, "Isn't it obvious? Liss pushes people away so she won't feel so hurt when they leave, or when she's moved into a new foster home." Sally looked astonished but Brodie smiled.

"Um, we were thinking Barbie for Jenni and GI Joe for Paul. What do you think?" he asked.

"Those are good choices." Patrick said diplomatically.

"But better ones would be…?"

"Jenni wants My Little Pony, the blue one." Patrick sounded very sure of himself. "Paul would like a Transformer action figure rather than GI Joe but it doesn't matter which one."

"Is that what they said to you?" Sally asked.

"No, ma'am, but those are the TV ads they like most."

"How about you, Patrick? What would you like?" Brodie asked.

"I do want something but it's expensive. Could you give me the money you budgeted instead of a smaller gift? I'll add my allowance to it and buy what I want after Christmas, when it might be cheaper in the sales."

"You don't want to open something from under the tree?"

"I haven't done that for a couple of years now, ma'am." Patrick didn't like the look Sally exchanged with Brodie. "We used to have a big Christmas back when Lily was around," Patrick added. "These last couple years me and dad worked over the holidays, up at Lake Tahoe at the resort hotels up there. I guess I've grown out of the whole 'opening presents from under the tree' thing."

Sally and her husband shared another look, one Patrick liked even less.

"What are you saving up for, Patrick?" This was Brodie.

"I want a portable CD player, a good quality one," he added. "It has to be small and robust enough to take on the road. I want to get a flight case for it too, but the player alone costs two hundred dollars."

"I'm not sure you're going to have enough, even if you save all your allowance," Sally ventured cautiously.

"Yeah, I thought so too, so I was planning to earn some money," Patrick replied calmly.

"You're not talking about a paper round, are you?" That was Brodie.

"I was thinking about horoscopes, Will. I can draw up personalized horoscopes, all I need is the date of birth of the person whose gift it will be. While I'm here I have plenty of free time to do them even when I'm not grounded and people like to give personalized gifts. I'd need to get the word out but that won't take much doing. People will pay twenty-five bucks a time for something like that if it's done well."

"That's a lot of money," Sally said in surprise.

Patrick shrugged. "Not really. I'm a professional and pretty well known. I'm not going to undersell the 'Boy Wonder' brand just because I'm a kid, that's poor business practice. With dad away there's quite a lot I can't do, but horoscopes are fine."

"Patrick, we're not happy with you making money by drawing up horoscopes while you're staying with us." Brodie sounded serious.

"Why not?" Patrick asked warily.

Brodie took a deep breath.

"Patrick, you know we really want you to stay here, we want to keep being your foster parents until you can go back to living with your dad," Brodie began, and Patrick felt nerves grip his stomach. Brodie had barely started and already Patrick didn't like the direction the conversation was heading. All he could do was nod.

"You also know we're born-again Christians. Some people call our church 'fundamentalist' but that just means we believe the Bible is true. Now, we don't insist you believe it too –"

"You do insist I go to your church," Patrick interrupted.

"That's not the same thing. We'd like you to be born again too but you can't make someone believe, you can only pray they will." That was Sally. They prayed for him? That was… kinda weird.

"We respect the fact that your beliefs are different to ours," Brodie continued, "but I must confess, I didn't feel comfortable with the casual way you were talking about the spirit of Simon's wife this afternoon. I don't want you carrying out occult practices while you're living under my roof. Not even horoscopes."

Patrick swallowed his first retort. He could see how serious Brodie was. He flirted with the idea of telling them it wasn't real but decided against it. Brodie wouldn't be any more in favor of him saying he took money off people for lies and fakery. He might even prefer thinking that Patrick had some kind of spiritual beliefs, in spite of them being 'occult.'

"Would you let me do it somewhere else?" Patrick asked instead. He could see straight away that Sally wanted to say 'no'.

"I'd prefer not at all," Brodie countered.

"I can't promise that, sir," Patrick shot back. "How would you feel if our roles were reversed, if I was asking you not to be Christians at home?"

"I would –" Brodie began, then stopped. "You're right," he said at last. "I'd still want to go to church, even if I didn't read the bible or pray in your home."

Patrick nodded. "So is it okay for me to go do the psychic stuff somewhere else, once I'm not grounded, I mean?"

"All right, Patrick. Where would you – that is, do you have a special place, like we have church?"

"No, sir, I just need somewhere quiet. I guess I'd go to the library. Um, would it be okay for me to carry on practicing for the act in your house? Card tricks, locks, memory techniques, codes? Nothing occult, all strictly showbiz stuff?"

"Practice for your act? Where does the show business stop and the psychic business start, Patrick? I thought your cold reading was just a trick but how did you know so much about Simon's wife? That room was empty, there weren't even pictures on the walls."

Patrick took a deep breath. "There was plenty in that room, Will. All the other rooms had carpet, that room had linoleum. The dents and scuffs on the floor, well, I was in a hospital only last night, that floor in Simon's house looked just the same. There had been a bed in there with big wheels rather than feet, equipment on stands behind it, a chair placed for a visitor." Patrick had closed his eyes as he spoke and was indicating with his hands where each item he named had been located. It reminded Brodie of the time at Taylor's house when Patrick had described climbing the steps into his home when he'd been an infant. "That all meant someone had been seriously ill in that room. The color of the wallpaper told me it was a woman. I guessed wife not daughter, pretty safe bet, I knew his daughter lived in the Bay Area with a husband of her own to look after her if she got sick. What else? Uh, Thanksgiving's special for everyone. Any housewife who lived in a place as big as Simon's would think their home was pretty special too. Simon told us the rest, he told us a lot, actually: her name, her birthday, their wedding anniversary, her family name, the scandal. I know she had three older sisters and a younger brother. His wife's grandfather died in 'fifty-five or 'fifty-six, her father in 'sixty-one. Simon was about ten years older than his wife and they were married thirty-three years."

"You weren't communicating with her spirit?"

"No, just… paying attention."

"Huh." Brodie almost sounded impressed.

"I was looking and guessing, nothing more. It's my job to make it look seamless, sir, but I know where the show business stops and the psychic business starts. I was reading the room, reading Simon, listening to what he said. I didn't do anything you would call occult this afternoon because Simon _really_ didn't want me to."

"but if he had wanted it? Is it something that you can switch on and off?"

"No, sir, it's… At school I do math in one class, English in another. Both classes would look the same to someone looking in through the classroom door, with a teacher standing at the front and kids at their desks, but I know I'm doing something very different in each class."

"It's something you choose?"

"Not... exactly. Every psychic I ever met says the gift chooses them, not the other way around. I was born a gypsy psychic, it's who I am. I don't switch anything on and off but I can choose to do psychic things or not, like choosing to do math rather than English. I guess like you said, you could choose to pray somewhere else. I do need to keep practicing the things that don't come naturally, Mr. Brodie, like cards and memory, all the showmanship rather than anything psychic. If people are gonna pay you have to give them a show. Dad and me, we have to earn a living somehow."

"You're asking a lot, Patrick. Faith isn't a game. Salvation and damnation aren't a joke."

"You said you trusted me," Patrick replied simply, looking steadily into Brodie's eyes. "Trust me about this."

Brodie took a deep breath and glanced at Sally before replying. "Okay. You can practice showmanship, Patrick, but nothing psychic or occult. Not in my house."

* * *

"Ruskins," the brisk voice answering the phone was female.

"Mrs. Ruskin, ma'am? This is Paddy Jane." The pizza had arrived just after his discussion with the Brodies so Patrick had waited until later in the evening to call Angela.

"What's the matter with your voice, Paddy Jane? You sound like you just got back from the dentist."

Damn. Not much got past Nannie Ruskin.

"I, uh, got a cut on my lip, ma'am."

"You been getting into fights again, Paddy?"

"No, ma'am, I swear. I had an accident."

"Hmm." It sounded as though Nannie didn't believe him. "What can I do for you, Paddy Jane?"

"Please may I speak to Angela, ma'am?"

"Just a moment." He heard the receiver being put down on the table, a door opening, Nannie calling Angela's name. Angela must have shouted back because Nannie came back on the line.

"She's just coming to the phone now." There was some muffled talking in the background that Patrick couldn't hear – Nannie probably had her hand over the mouthpiece – then Angela came on the line.

"Hey, Paddy, how's it going?"

"Not good… Ani, I've been grounded. I can't come over to see you guys for a week. Can you come visit me, tomorrow maybe? I need to talk to a real person. A lot happened over Thanksgiving and I just – I need someone to talk to."

"Are you okay? Nannie said you got beat up."

"Not – not really. Look, it's a long story. Can you come here tomorrow?"

"Paddy you're scaring me. This isn't like you. Talk to me _now_."

"Please Ani, I need to see you in person. I guess I'm trying to say I miss all you guys and a lot happened and I need someone to talk to and I can't come over there any time soon and… You're my best friend, Ani. I need to see my best friend. I know Dougie Schmidt's got this jealousy thing going and I don't want to cause trouble for you but right now I just – I really need my best friend. Tomorrow, I mean. Please come see me tomorrow."

Will you be okay tonight? Have you been beaten up? Do you need me to come over?"

"No, no, I'm okay, not beat up, not really. Maybe a little, but that isn't what I wanted to see you about. It's… Complicated."

"Of course it is." Patrick smiled as he imagined the look on Angela's face as she said this. "Nannie?" Patrick heard Angela call out. "You need me to be here tomorrow?" He also heard Nannie Ruskin's distant 'no, hun' before Angela was back on the line. "I'll be there tomorrow, as early as I can, I promise."

"Can you do something else for me too? I need my astrology books and my pens and inks. They're in our storage trailer. You'd, uh, have to break in, though. The only set of keys are in my pocket here, but the locks shouldn't cause any problems for Danny."

"Okay…"

My trunks right at the back on the left, you'll have to climb over the tent canvas to get to it. Mine's the old black flight case with a crack down the front panel, you can't miss it. Danny'll have to open that too. The pens and inks are in a box in the lid compartment and the books are inside on the right, under some old props. I need them all, there's about six or seven books which might look like the wrong ones, math books and an old almanack as well as books about stars and astrology but I need them all. There's a bag full of old plastic bags on a hook next to the door as you go in, you can carry them in one of those. And please make sure Danny locks up again after, dad'll kill me if I leave the storage unlocked, all his stuff's in there while he's away."

"Jeez, Paddy, you know with your dad out of the picture you don't have to do so much practice all the time!"

"Nah, Ani, this is something I want to do, I just need those books to do it. Anyway it turns out that I like practicing. There's nothing like having to go to school to help focus your mind on what you'd rather be doing with your time."

Angela chuckled. "That sounds more like you. I'll see you tomorrow, Paddy."

"Seeya, Ani."

* * *

Saturday dawned bright and sunny, warm for the end of November. When he got up Patrick found his cut lip was healing nicely, though the bruises still looked ugly.

Paul and Jenni couldn't stop themselves from staring at Patrick whenever he walked past during their breakfast – Patrick had cooked breakfast for himself and Brodie earlier, as usual – and their already whispered conversation broke off into silence each time he entered the kitchen. Yesterday evening Brodie had simply told everyone Patrick had an accident and left it at that. Sending out for pizza for dinner had been sufficient distraction and Patrick hadn't had a chance to talk with them alone until now.

"Hey guys, it's a nice day, why don't we go play in the garden for a bit?" Patrick ventured.

"That's a good idea," Sally weighed in as she cleared the table. Paul and Jenni complied but they didn't speak and both continued to look at him uneasily.

When they got outside Patrick headed for the shed area then turned to the still-silent younger kids.

"Do you want to ask me about this before we play a game?" Patrick began simply, gesturing towards his face.

"Does it hurt?" Paul asked straight away.

"No, only if I poke at it. It's just like regular bruises, they only hurt if you bump them again."

"It looks like a bad man hit you." That was Paul again.

"You guys seen someone before who was beat up?" Patrick asked, surprised. Jenni just stared at him wide-eyed but Paul gave a small nod. Patrick had guessed they were orphans, like Liss, but had imagined a former life as conventional as hers. Patrick had seen guys after they'd been in a fight, knew how scary it looked to a kid, but the first time he saw it he'd been older than these two.

"I was hit, but it was an accident," he said. "I woke up a grumpy grown-up. He woke up slowly but he waved his arms about, like this, while he was waking up. I was standing a bit too close and he accidentally hit me."

"Were you scared?" This was Paul again.

"No, it was an accident, it happened real fast so there wasn't time to be scared. I guess I would have been scared if he meant to hurt me, but he didn't."

"Was it Will?" Jenni asked. No wonder they were both so subdued, Patrick thought.

"No, sweetie, Will would never ever hit one of us, not even in his sleep, he's one of the good guys. He cares about you two. He's good to me even though I cause trouble for him sometimes. Will isn't grumpy when he wakes up. It wasn't Will. You do believe me, don't you?" he added.

"Yes," Paul said. Jenni nodded.

"I snuck out on Thanksgiving night after bedtime. That's when it happened. I went out after curfew when I shouldn't have, I went somewhere where I shouldn't have gone. A man was asleep there. When I woke him up he turned out to be grumpy and this happened by accident. That's why Willand Sally have rules like bedtimes and curfews. Bad things can happen late at night even when you're not with bad people. That guy was just sleepy and a bit grumpy when he woke up. He's a good guy too, like Spider-Man, but even Spider-Man hits the wrong guy by accident sometimes."

Jenni still looked nervous.

"Why did you sneak out?" she asked.

Patrick thought about how the Brodies might put it. He didn't want to go into details.

"I… made a bad choice. If I'd stayed in bed on Thanksgiving night this would never have happened. That doesn't mean it was my fault," he added. "People shouldn't ever get beat up, even if they did something wrong. That grown-up didn't mean to hit anyone, it wasn't his fault either. When you fall over, the ground doesn't mean to hurt you but it's a whole lot bigger and harder than you are, so you get a bruise or a cut on your knee. This is the same. Grown-ups are a whole lot bigger and stronger than us."

"Will you promise to make good choices from now on?" Jenni asked seriously.

"Aw sweetie," Patrick said, giving her a small hug, "I promise to try."

They spent some time playing hide-and-seek in the back yard. After they came in to get a drink and a snack, Jenni and Paul settled down to watch some Saturday morning cartoons on the TV but Patrick was too restless. He dug out one of his library books instead and took it out to the front porch. He wasn't expecting Angela to turn up before lunchtime but nevertheless couldn't stop looking up hopefully each time a car drove past, wondering who would be giving her a lift.

The sixth time he looked up Patrick was delighted to see his friend Pete Barsocky's ageing pickup. There seemed to be a close convoy behind it and Patrick was astonished a moment later when Pete, grinning, pulled up on the drive and rolled to a halt in front of the garage. Even as he did so, three other pickups performed the same maneuver and came to rest parked in close formation, filling the drive. Dozens of carnies, mostly young men, piled out or jumped down from the backs of the vehicles, led by Pete and Billy Ruskin.

"Pete! Boss-man!" Patrick exclaimed in surprise. He ran over and Pete picked him up into his signature bear hug, swinging him around before setting him down.

"You okay, Paddy?" Pete asked at the same time as Billy Ruskin said "What the hell happened to you?" Before he could say more than 'I'm fine' Patrick was surrounded by people shaking his hand, hugging him, patting him on the back or his shoulder, tousling his hair. Grinning as though the top of his head might come off Patrick greeted them all, delighted to see them. This was carny folk writ large, not trying to remain unobtrusive in costumes or concession stand uniforms. They were all guys he thought of as _his_ friends, not his dad's: people with whom he would happily shoot the breeze on a wet, slow day on the lot. Patrick heard a distinctive engine and looked up in surprise just as Pops Ruskin's pride and joy, his maroon '68 Camaro SS, came into view.

The car pulled up, blocking in the pick-ups on the drive, as Patrick freed himself from the genial melee and made it to the sidewalk. As though in a dream he opened the passenger door and held out his hand for Angela as Pops Ruskin himself stepped out of the driver's side. Angela had time to say 'hey, Paddy' and give him an apologetic smile before Pops was in front of him, grasping his hand in a firm shake.

"Paddy Jane," Ruskin murmured, his voice its usual menacing-sounding gravel tone, catching Patrick's eye and shaking his head. "You got a rare talent for finding trouble wherever you go, boy. Last night when Billy heard what happened to his new headline act he wanted to bring a few boys over to, uh, check up on you. I persuaded him to wait until this morning."

Patrick's eyes widened as he realized what was going on. This was the kind of trouble that Brodie definitely didn't deserve.

"No no no no no no no! They didn't do this! They've been nothing but good to me!" Patrick murmured urgently, giving the faintest jerk of his head towards the house. "There's little kids in the house!" he added in a rapid hiss, close to panic.

"Okay, son, calm down, calm down," Ruskin replied, his eyes taking in the bruising on Patrick's face with a shrewd expression. "That's why I'm here today too. I wanted to make sure Billy wasn't looking for trouble when he came over."

"With twenty guys?" The anxiety was still evident in Patrick's voice as he glanced over the lawn, every eye on him and Pops.

"Your _friends_, boy. They all wanted to come. Sometimes it's good to remind people that you ain't all alone in the world. Everyone here just wanted to make sure you're okay. Okay? That's all. These are my people, not Billy's crew. You say these folks didn't hit you, well I'm sure glad to hear that and I believe you, I really do, but I think Billy would like to know exactly what happened to you, make sure it won't happen again, if you catch my drift." The old man nodded towards the house, adding casually, "It's showtime, son."

With a sinking feeling Patrick turned. Brodie and Sally were standing at the open front door, looking apprehensively at the crowd of carnies standing on their front lawn.


	23. Chapter 23

_It's showtime, son._ Patrick Jane glanced at Pops Ruskin as the man's words bubbled into the forefront of his mind. _Showtime_. The word exerted a calming effect on Patrick. His anxiety subsided just as his pre-show nerves always did when the show finally started. This situation wasn't so very different from a show. The Brodies were the marks, Patrick thought, though his goal today was to defend them, not exploit them. Angela and Pete were the plants, Patrick's willing accomplices. Billy and Pops were the skeptics, they'd need careful handling. The rest of the audience – the guys on the lawn – were friendlies rather than hostiles, more akin to a tent full of believers than a crowd of drunks. They would be more on his side than they were Billy's or Pops', though Patrick wanted to avoid them having to choose a side if at all possible. Patrick knew everything he needed to about all the players here. He could do this.

"Mr. Ruskin, sir. It's an honor. Ani, it's good to see you. Please." Patrick swept a welcoming gesture towards the house. He had started projecting his voice so everyone could hear. He was deeply moved that all these guys had his back, however the carnies – tattooed, scarred, some with missing teeth – did look out of place on the manicured front lawn and were already attracting the attention of the neighborhood. His first priority: move this show to somewhere less public.

"Lead the way, Paddy," Ruskin rumbled. Billy Ruskin joined them as they crossed the lawn. Patrick managed to catch Pete's eye, raised his eyebrows and got a faint nod back. Pete turned to Samantha, one of the few women in the crowd, and started whispering in her ear as Patrick followed the Ruskins up the porch steps. He turned back to the lawn when he reached the top.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Patrick called out.

"You doin' your act for us, Paddy?" Pete yelled. That got a few laughs as well as dragging everyone's attention away from the Brodies. This was an old trick, people would stop to watch a heckler interrupt a showman when they'd never stop for the showman on his own trying to promote his show.

"No freebies, pal! Ya gotta wait in line and pay, just like everyone else!" This was an in-joke, something every carny there had yelled at some point, and it had them all chuckling now. Patrick went on, "Grab your coolers and head out back, guys. We'll see you all there in just a moment, okay?" He caught Pete's eye again and Pete was the first to move, heading back to his pickup. Samantha headed over to Billy's truck and pretended to struggle trying to lift something out of the back. She called out for some help and that got everyone moving, either to get stuff from the trucks or making their way around the side of the house.

"Angela, sweetheart, can you go keep an eye on those boys?" Ruskin asked his granddaughter.

"Sure thing, Pops."

"Just follow the path around the side," Patrick added, "there's a patio with some bench seats back there. Make yourselves at home. Uh, Ani?" Patrick went on in an undertone. "Not too much at home. Best behavior, don't want to scare the townies, yeah?" He gave her a small wink and she broke into a smile.

"Sure, Paddy," she grinned then was gone. Patrick turned back to the porch.

"Mr. Ruskin, Billy, allow me to introduce my foster carers, Mr. William Brodie and his wife Sally," Patrick began. "They took me in the day dad was arrested and they've been real good to me. I don't think anyone could have been kinder." Brodie was surprised and moved by Patrick's words. "Will, Sally, I'd like you to meet Mr. Donal Ruskin, he owns all the Ruskin carnivals. Sally, you met his son Billy on Monday; Will this is Mr. Billy Ruskin. Billy runs the West Coast carnival that I'm joining next season."

"Mr. Ruskin," Brodie shook Pops' hand first.

"Mr. Brodie, please, call me Donal – or Don," Ruskin replied with a smile.

"Mr. Ruskin," Brodie repeated, this time shaking Billy's hand.

"Everyone calls me Billy," the younger man replied, his mouth smiling but his eyes appraising as he gripped Brodie's hand.

"Donal, Billy, it's good to meet you both. I'm Will."

"Won't you come through?" Sally asked, then led the way through the house. She hesitated when she reached the kitchen, then continued through to the back yard. The patio was crowded and every hand was already holding a beer can. Angela had kept the big table free so Sally led everyone to sit there. Patrick felt obliged to sit next to Brodie to offer his silent support to the man. The Ruskins, including Angela, sat opposite.

"Can I get everyone a drink, coffee or…?" Sally looked around at the other carnies with some dismay. There wasn't any beer in the house.

"Black coffee for me, ma'am, if it's not too much trouble," Ruskin replied.

"I take my coffee with a little milk, ma'am," Billy's smile still didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Coffee for me, too, Sal, thanks," Brodie added.

"Can I get you anything?" Sally's gaze traveled from Patrick to Angela and back.

"Uh, OJ for me, please ma'am," Patrick said when Sally's eyes rested on him.

"Me too, Mrs. Brodie, thank you," Angela smiled.

"It's good to see you, Ani," Patrick began when Sally had gone, wanting to steer the conversation but not yet sure what approach to use. "When I called you yesterday I didn't expect…" Patrick's voice tailed off as he gazed around the yard. Nearly two dozen people, his _friends_, all coming to his rescue. He swallowed. He had to focus on his performance here. What he needed to say depended absolutely on how Pops and Billy wanted to approach things.

"You sounded kinda down when you called," Angela smiled back. "Everyone –" Pops Ruskin cut her off.

"When Angela here got Paddy's phone call yesterday, Will, I'm sure you can appreciate that his friends were… concerned."

Brodie smiled warmly. "Donal, I am so pleased to finally meet some of Patrick's friends. It's good to know that Patrick has so many people who care about his wellbeing. I can assure you that any friend of Patrick's is welcome to visit him here whenever they have any concerns. We haven't known him as long as you have but we care about him too." Patrick let out his breath: Brodie might not have grasped everything that was going on here but he had nevertheless said the right thing.

Pops Ruskin looked at Brodie, smiling.

"That's good to know, Will. Thank you."

Billy chose that moment to ask, "Paddy, what happened to your face?"

Okay, that was how Billy wanted to play this. Patrick looked him in the eye.

"I guess you could say it all started when I broke into Mr. Taylor's house on Thanksgiving night."

Billy and Angela both looked shocked, even Ruskin looked surprised. Patrick could hear a reaction from others within earshot too but his attention was focused on the people sitting at the table. Pops Ruskin recovered first, giving a small chuckle with very little humor in it.

"I told you, Billy, if trouble don't find Paddy fast enough he'll go looking for it. Boy's got a talent for getting himself into hot water."

"Mr. Taylor? As in the lawyer?" Billy's voice was full of horrified disbelief. "You broke into a _lawyer's_ house? Wait, you're not telling me that _he_–"

"Yeah, this was him. I guess when he saw someone in his house he just kinda… reacted. To be fair to Mr. Taylor he didn't realize it was me until afterwards."

"You mean he _recognized_ you? Oh, this story just keeps getting better."

"I was picked up by the cops less than a block from Mr. Taylor's house."

Billy ran a hand through his hair as he mumbled a string of profanities.

"Son," Ruskin said in a warning tone.

"Uh, excuse my french," Billy said to Brodie before turning back to Patrick. "Okay, Paddy. They give you a date for your arraignment yet? What are your bail conditions?" Billy sounded like he was looking for a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.

Patrick inwardly rejoiced. Only naming his crime, not going into the details had worked better than he'd hoped. Billy was no longer seeking retribution, rather he was now worried that he wouldn't have a headline act next season. Patrick gave Billy his brightest smile.

"It's okay, boss-man, I'm not on bail, just grounded. Will here had a long chat with Mr. Taylor yesterday and he agreed not to press charges. We all went to the Sheriff's office together afterwards and cleared everything up with the cops."

"You're giving me too much credit, Patrick." Brodie frowned. Something was definitely going on here. Patrick hadn't lied but this was a very long way from the whole truth. Patrick had spoken about Brodie in glowing tones to his new boss twice now and was using what Brodie had started to recognize as his performance voice, loud enough to make sure everyone in the back yard heard his story.

"I wouldn't say that, sir." Patrick now sighed inwardly. Brodie was a man who would snatch defeat from the jaws of victory if Patrick let him.

"So no charges, no arrest, no bail conditions, nothing?" Billy wanted to make sure.

"No, sir, I'm just grounded for a week. That means I'm not allowed out except for school."

"We know what being grounded means, son." This was Pops. "I'm guessing you shouldn't have invited anyone over to visit while you're grounded, either."

"No he shouldn't," Brodie interjected. "We, uh, must have forgotten to mention that to you yesterday, Patrick."

"Oh!" Genuine dismay filled Patrick's face. "I didn't realize. I didn't mean to break the rules again, sir, I really didn't."

Billy turned to Brodie, smiles all over his face. "Well, whatever it was you did, Will, I'm very grateful. So is Paddy, even if he is breaking your rules again already."

"This was my fault, Mr. Brodie, not Paddy's," Angela interrupted before Brodie could speak. "Paddy just wanted to talk to me, I was the one who told everyone they could all come along too. It wouldn't be fair to ground him for longer because of me."

"It's okay, young lady," Brodie replied. "Patrick?"

"I wanted to talk to Ani about everything that happened over Thanksgiving, Will, that's all," Patrick said miserably, glancing at Angela. "I knew I couldn't go to Stoney Ridge but I thought it was okay for her to come over here instead. I didn't realize it wasn't allowed and I didn't know everyone else would want to come too. It's…" Patrick tailed off, looking from Brodie to Ruskin and back. "I know you think my life isn't normal, Will, but to me this," the sweep of his arm took in the people drinking beer in the back yard, "is normal. That," Patrick gestured towards Brodie's house now, "is strange and new and – and just when I think I've got it worked out, it throws me a curve ball. I mean, I'm used to, I don't know, being older somehow when I'm at home. Everyday life here is like – like being grounded all the time. When I'm grounded it's more like jail. I'm not saying I should get off scot-free, I know I caused a lot of trouble for a lot of people over Thanksgiving, but this? I just wanted to talk things through with my best friend. I didn't know it wasn't allowed and I didn't know the guys would want to come over too. Am I – am I really gonna be grounded for longer, Will?"

"Well," Brodie started, but didn't continue. The boy said normal life here felt like a punishment. He had been with them for a month now but despite appearances to the contrary Patrick hadn't really settled in at all. _When I'm at home._ Brodie wondered whether Patrick would ever think of this place as home. Grounding him for longer felt wrong, somehow. It made Brodie feel bad about himself, as though he were poking at a bird that was already in a cage. "I'm not making any promises, Patrick, but let me talk with Sally."

"Um, does that mean everyone can stay? Just a few hours, please, Will? I promise they won't be any trouble," he added with a questioning glance at Ruskin and Billy. Patrick didn't know exactly how the guys would react if he tried to send them away now but he couldn't imagine it would be good. Brodie couldn't help smiling at Patrick's request, the boy would always try to take a mile when offered an inch.

"They won't," Ruskin confirmed, his eyes on Billy, who nodded his agreement too.

Sally came out then with their drinks on a tray. "Sal?" Brodie began as she handed them round. "Patrick only invited his friend Angela to come over today. He wasn't expecting anyone else, the others all came over because they were worried about him. We didn't actually tell him that he shouldn't invite friends to visit while he's grounded. They'd, ah, like to stay a while."

"We all know Paddy don't pay too much attention to rules," Ruskin chipped in. "It, uh, some of it comes with the traveling life. Kids grow up fast on the road, you might say. My granddaughter and her brother can be a handful too sometimes, but Paddy? He's in a league of his own."

"We're right here, Pops," Angela piped up indignantly.

"Then maybe you shouldn't be," Ruskin replied evenly. "You came to talk, didn't you? Why don't you two kids run along."

"It's fine, Patrick," Sally smiled. She turned to her husband. "His friends are all settled now, Will, it'd be rude to make them leave. We didn't have any plans for today and Patrick didn't know not to invite anyone over. We sometimes forget you need things explaining more," she added to Patrick. He hesitated, then decided not to worry about it any more.

"Thanks. C'mon, Ani, let me show you around." Patrick snatched up an unattended picnic blanket from the patio then guided Angela towards the back of the yard and the sheds. He flicked the blanket down with an easy movement then sat with his back against one of the sheds. He took a deep breath and relaxed, letting out a long exhale as Angela sat beside him.

"So… Billy?" Patrick asked.

"He was real mad last night, Paddy. Pops and Nannie managed to stop him coming over here until today and he'd calmed down a lot by the time we set off this morning. Pops stopped him bringing any of his crewmen today, though, just in case. So why did you break into Mr. Taylor's house?"

Patrick launched straight away into the story of Thanksgiving. He described how Taylor had come over yesterday, how they'd cleared up everything with Brodie and the cops, how child protective services and the California Bar association were still investigating. Angela had laughed out loud when he said he needed a better story than 'I broke into a big, fancy house just to clean the place up'. Patrick laughed too, it seemed funnier today than it had yesterday.

"Now that would be a cool prank, breaking into Dougie's trailer and spring-cleaning his bunk," Angela grinned.

"All not well in paradise?" Patrick asked innocently.

"I didn't come here to talk about Dougie," Angela shot back.

"Where did you go Thanksgiving night?" Patrick asked instead.

"Uncle Michael and Auntie Jen are going to have a baby! They announced it at Thanksgiving and we all went over to their trailer that night. Uncle Billy would have helped you out for sure otherwise, probably Nannie too. Mr. Taylor draws up contracts for all the shows, Nannie knows his wife quite well. Knew his wife, I guess."

"What am I gonna tell dad? He told me to keep out of trouble. If Mr. Taylor doesn't tell him about Thanksgiving, someone here will. He's gonna be mad if he doesn't hear it from me, but the whole evening makes me look stupid or like I'm hiding things from him. He doesn't know I've been playing poker at Taylor's House. I wasn't keeping it from him, not really, I just never got around to mentioning it. He doesn't know one of my teachers used to work for Lily either – and she wants me to keep that quiet."

"Okay, Paddy, you don't want your dad to be mad, I get that, but what's he gonna do? It's like ripping off a Band-Aid. Tell him everything now and it'll be old news by the time he gets out of prison."

Patrick stared into the distance for a few seconds as if he hadn't heard her, eyes flicking unseeing from side to side, then he turned to Angela.

"Ani, you're a genius! It isn't about what _I_ don't want, though, the key is what _he_ doesn't want."

"Of course I'm a genius, Paddy!" Angela grinned before continuing, "So… uh… you gonna tell me?"

"Mr. Taylor told me how to tell the story to the cops, right? So I just need to tell dad the story in the way he wants to hear."

"I never said anything like that," Angela replied.

"It would be true, even more true than the other versions. He wants me to stay out of trouble. Everything I did that night was to stay out of trouble. I've been grounded by the Brodies but that's – it's normal for teens to be grounded, it's a minor thing."

"It didn't sound minor when you called last night."

Patrick looked stricken. "I didn't mean… it was just… I wasn't lying, Ani," he said earnestly. "I would never lie to you. I was feeling down after meeting with the cops and my social worker. Will's still being investigated by CPS because of me and Taylor's still in trouble with the lawyers, and I… When it's all _my_ fault and I've been _stupid_ and–" Patrick stopped abruptly before continuing in a small voice. "When Mr. Taylor shouted at me like that it felt… You know I don't care any more when townies yell at us but when it came from him… It was worse than being hit. I don't know why but it was worse even than when dad says stuff like that. It made me feel _worthless_, Ani, and no one else in the whole world would understand that apart from you. I needed to see you."

Angela said nothing, just pulled Patrick into a long hug. Afterwards she leaned back against the shed but got him to lay down on his back with his head on her lap, looking up at the sky as she stroked his hair like a cat. It was comfortable and comforting.

"You forgave Mr. Taylor," It wasn't a question.

"It wasn't like that. When I was with the cops, the doctors, Lazczyck from Child Protective Services, I automatically wanted to keep him out trouble too. I was angry with him, and upset, but still."

"You must really like him."

"It feels like I've known him my whole life, even though we only met a month ago. We're… alike, I think. Talking with him is like talking to an older version of me, if that makes any sense. He thinks like me. I never met anyone who thinks like me, not even dad. _Especially_ not dad."

"Never? You telling me you're lonely all the time, Paddy?"

"No, Ani, it's not like that. I love the gang and I love my friends back home. These guys today – I can't tell you how good it felt when everyone turned up here. You and me, we grew up together, you know me like I know myself. Remember our first day at school? Or after your mom and dad's funeral? Remember Witchita?"

"I do remember."

Patrick sighed. "You're my best friend, not Mr. Taylor but… I dunno. It's like our minds work in the same way. I don't know how else to describe it. I thought at first it was because he toured with a carnival back in the day so he understood the life, y'know? But it's more than that. Most people seem to – to think in slow motion, somehow, but not Simon."

"Well thank you, Patrick Jane! You calling me stupid?" Patrick could tell Angela wasn't really feeling offended but her words still stung.

"No! God, no, Ani, how could you say that? I didn't mean anything like that. I guess we're just on the same wavelength, or something. He… Simon said I was better at reading people than anyone he ever met, better than him, better than dad, even. Can you imagine dad ever saying anything like that?"

"No," Angela admitted quietly. She knew how important that must have been to Patrick.

They fell into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, each deep in their own thoughts.

"Paddy? Promise – I mean I know you're with uncle Billy next year but… Promise you'll be back with Pops after that."

"That's up to dad, really but –" Patrick stopped talking, eyes shining.

"But what?" Angela asked when he said nothing else.

"Oh Ani, I'm a genius too! It's up to dad – but what if it isn't really up to him?"

Angela laughed. "You are so full of it, Patrick Jane," she said with deep affection in her voice.

"I'd have to… But we were already going to… And he did agree…" Patrick was in a world of his own, his expression shifting as the words tumbled from his mouth. Suddenly, disconcertingly, he was back with her and grinning from ear to ear. "I got a plan. I got a plan, Ani, and we _will_ be back with you after next season, and I'm gonna have a bigger say in what we do, and dad will be paying me, and we'll be an even bigger headline act for your granddad, and… I wanted things to change and now – now I know how. I still need to work out some of the details but… This is going to work. There's no reason at all why this shouldn't work."

"Patrick Jane, you are making no sense at all!"

"Come on, Ani," Patrick said suddenly, sitting up in one fluid movement and holding out his hand to help her up. "Let's get back to the party."

"What, your 'not getting into more trouble for having my friends over even though I'm grounded' party?" They both laughed.

"Yeah, that one. All the guys came over to see me, after all. I have to go mingle. I don't want to leave your granddad and Will alone for too long either. I didn't like what he was saying about me and rules. I don't want him giving the Brodies any ideas."

When they got back to the patio Sally and Will were chatting animatedly with Pops Ruskin, Billy was nowhere to be seen and the others had settled into half a dozen groups sharing bench seats or picnic blankets. The usual suspects had dug guitars out from somewhere and were playing along in one corner while Jenni danced. Gimpy Bill had hold of Paul by a wrist and ankle and was swinging him through the air over the lawn as the boy shouted with laughter. Liss was standing in the doorway to the kitchen so Patrick headed over there.

"Hiya, Trick! I wondered where you got to," Liss called out as they approached. She eyed Angela with a shrewd look that Patrick didn't like.

"Trick?" Angela murmured with a snigger. Patrick gave her a grin.

"Ani, this is Liss Seacroft, my foster sister. Liss, this is Angela Ruskin, she's my best friend from home. Her grandparents own all the Ruskin carnivals and her uncle Billy is my new boss."

"He let's you call him 'Trick'?" Angela sounded surprised and impressed.

"He can't stop me, and anyway the name suits him, don't you think?"

"Oh yeah, definitely." Both girls laughed. Pete, who had appeared next to Patrick laughed too.

"There's no way you're gonna talk your way out of that one, dude," he grinned, dragging Patrick away before he could make even a token protest. They went back to where he'd been sitting and Patrick chatted and joked with Pete, Sam and the guys for a while before easing his way around the other groups, sharing a word with everyone as he worked his way back over to the big table on the patio. Pops Ruskin spotted Patrick approaching.

"Will here says you got a roll of lock picks off of a friend for your last birthday," Ruskin began. "Was that from Danny? Has my grandson been teaching you to pick locks, Paddy? You figured you didn't already know enough ways to get into trouble?"

"Uh, not exactly," Patrick replied. "Danny did give me his old set of picks but he hasn't been teaching me anything, not really."

"You telling me that you learned breaking and entering all on your own?" The old man seemed not to want to let this go.

"I did borrow his lock collection for a while but I didn't get lessons off of him. You know me, sir," Patrick grinned. "I like to keep myself busy and I like to be good at what I do."

"See, Will, that there's the problem and the solution all in one," Ruskin kept his eyes on Patrick as he spoke. "They do say the devil finds work for idle hands. His Pa mostly keeps Paddy out of trouble by keeping the boy busy, so he don't have too much time to get creative. You could do a lot worse than to take a leaf out of Alex's book."

This was uncomfortably close to the truth. Patrick wanted to deflect the Brodies attention away from what Pops had said but before he could open his mouth Brodie himself weighed in.

"I think that's a little unfair, Don. Patrick does keep himself busy but he isn't up to mischief. He doesn't skip school, he does his homework on time, he keeps his room tidy, he helps out with Jenni and Paul or with the chores without ever complaining. He even cooks me breakfast every morning."

Patrick could have hugged Brodie.

"Paddy's good at getting his own way, too," Ruskin persisted. "He can pluck a fine-sounding argument out of thin air and I never met a boy so good at distracting you when you're trying to tell him off. Don't let him get away with anything, give him an inch and he'll take a mile."

"He is… a persuasive young man," Brodie replied thoughtfully.

"I would say I just stand my ground, sir," Patrick cut in.

"Yes you do, Patrick, and that's no bad thing," Sally unexpectedly chimed in. "It isn't wrong to be prepared to go up against authority figures. Being in a position of authority doesn't mean a person is always right." Sally started blushing as everyone at the table looked at her so Patrick gave her a wide, encouraging smile. He guessed she didn't usually speak up like that.

"Sounds like… you're settling in better than you thought, Paddy," Ruskin was giving him a look. Patrick tried to look as innocent as possible.

"I'm trying, sir."

Patrick made his way around all the groups of guys then, chatting or joking with everyone, relaxing and letting his mind tick over. He knew what he wanted, now. His dad wanted to stay in charge: Patrick wanted more control with both the act and the cons. His dad wanted to keep all the income: Patrick wanted their income split fifty-fifty. Alex wanted to keep the 'Boy Wonder' brand going as long as possible: above all Patrick wanted to develop a solo act. He had an idea how to go about getting what he wanted, too, though he needed to do some more work on the fine details.

Last summer when he had balked at the cruelty of looking that dying girl in the eye and selling her and her family an expensive false hope, he had been truly scared by Alex's threat to abandon him. Now he knew he could thrive without his dad, even if he was only a thirteen-year-old kid. He had negotiated the deal with Billy. He had a road map for dealing with school and the care system. There was plenty he could still learn from Alex but one day – not today, maybe not for a few years but the day was coming, he could sense it just beyond the horizon – he would be better off without his dad. And Alex would never be better off without him. The knowledge burned bright in Patrick's mind that his dad no longer held all the high-value cards in their relationship.

He still had a lot to learn (_you lack experience, you don't always comprehend what you see_) and he thought his dad would be the best person to teach him, but Alex was no longer Patrick's only option (_you don't need to do teaching in order for me to do learning, Mr. Taylor_). Patrick was sure he could get himself where he wanted to be even if he had to work alone, outside of the carnival, staying in foster care until the State of California decided he was old enough to take care of himself. _I've been reading people for over forty years and you're way better than I am. You're better at it than your father_. That was the foundation, Patrick was sure that he could build a better life, build real wealth on top of a foundation like that.

Around lunchtime it became clear that Ruskin had sent Billy to the wholesale market. Very shortly afterwards Blue and Shaggy from the carnival cookhouse emerged from Sally's kitchen carrying dish after dish of food until the big table was packed and a delicious smell pervaded the garden. There was a pot of shredded leftover turkey in some kind of sauce to go in the taco shells that Billy had picked up, an enormous pot of soup apparently made from other Thanksgiving leftovers, fresh guacamole, salsas and several different salads. The Thanksgiving ham had been sliced up to make sandwiches. Everyone set to eating and, after some initial suspicion, the youngsters loved the food. Jenni had enjoyed the tacos so much that Sally extracted a promise from Blue to write down his Tinga recipe before he left. Patrick supervised the clear-up, making sure to put everything away in the correct place. In no time at all Sally's kitchen was looking sparkling, as though nothing had happened there.

Afterwards Patrick stepped out into the surprisingly warm mid-afternoon sunshine. He knew that, now they had settled in, the carnies would happily stay drinking and chilling here in Sally's garden until midnight or later. He would enjoy that but Sally had checked her watch twice even before he'd gone inside and he felt he'd stretched his luck to breaking point already. He nipped back into the kitchen and dug out a handful of refuse sacks.

"Hey Bill," Patrick called to Gimpy Bill, now sitting with some other crewmen on a blanket.

"Hiya, Trick!" Bill grinned widely at Patrick's new nickname. The others chuckled.

"You still picking up the refunds on bottles and cans?"

"Five cents a pop," Bill nodded. Patrick held up two sacks.

"You get bottles, I'll get cans."

"Empty the cigarette butts out of 'em first," Bill replied. Patrick looked around then picked up a bucket.

"If you get any in the bottles then empty them in here, Bill, not onto the floor. Sally won't want them messing up her garden." With that Patrick started leisurely circulating again, stopping at each group to pick up the discarded cans, hinting as he chatted that it might be time for the carnies to think about heading back to Stoney Ridge. By the time he was half way around the yard some of them were already packing unopened beer and soda cans into coolers. Patrick ended up back at the big table with the Brodies and Ruskins.

"…known the Janes ever since Alex and his sister Lily first spent a winter up at Stoney Ridge. I even babysat for Paddy once or twice," Patrick overheard Billy explaining to Sally before the man spotted him approaching. "Hey, Paddy!"

"What is it, Boss-man?"

"Just wanted to say goodbye before I go and to ask you to promise me, Paddy, no more breaking and entering."

"No more, sir, I swear."

"I mean it, Paddy, I got a lot riding on you and your pa next summer. You're my new headline act." Billy wasn't smiling.

"I believe I've learnt my lesson, boss-man," Patrick replied earnestly. "Any locks I pick in future will be strictly on a professional basis."

When Patrick walked Angela to the car half an hour later, Pops Ruskin was waiting for them.

"Sounded like they drank the kool-aid, Paddy. Laying it on a bit thick, ain't ya, son?"

"Doing school work, helping around the house, cooking breakfast, that's just fitting in," Patrick replied.

"You watch your step, son. People don't like to feel they been played."

"It's the real me, sir," Patrick protested.

"Hmm."

"Paddy!" Angela interrupted before her grandfather could continue. "I nearly forgot, I got your books here." She passed a bag through the open window.

"Thanks, Ani. Thanks, sir. Bye!"

"You just watch yourself, son," Pops Ruskin warned again before he fired up the engine. Patrick stood on the sidewalk and waved as one truck after another backed out onto the street and took off behind him.

* * *

Patrick's lip was nearly healed, his bruises mostly faded by Monday when he returned to school. He noticed some second glances at his face from other kids as he walked into home room: Rico took one look and broke into a big grin. Ashley and Tran were already there so Patrick shot them both a quick smile and headed over to his seat. He turned to look at both of them – Ashley looked horrified, Tran curious.

"So how did the holidays go for you guys?" Patrick started with a big grin.

"You been shooting off your mouth again, Trick?" Tran asked.

"Patrick, what happened to you?" Ashley asked at the same time.

"Which would you say is cooler, that I couldn't pay a gambling debt or that you should see the other guy?" Patrick retorted, still grinning.

"Oh that's a tough call." Tran was taking his question seriously. "Gambling's cool but losing never is. You don't look much like a fighter but saying the other guy came off worse would make kids think twice about you, like maybe you know kung fu or something. Hey, you could say you got it in a kung fu competition!"

"What really happened?" Ashley still looked concerned.

"Something too boring to feed into the rumor mill," Patrick replied. "You know how this works, Ashley. I want a few stories to spread around. What would be the most outrageous?"

"You could combine the first two," Tran suggested. "The other guy couldn't pay his gambling debt and so he tried to fight his way out of it, but you whipped his ass."

"Oh I like that," Patrick grinned. "It makes me sound real shady. Liss said a couple weeks back that she thought I was like The Godfather. Come on, Ashley, your turn, think of your best story."

"Umm… You stopped a guy who was robbing a gas station?"

"Action-packed," Patrick smiled to Ashley, even as he thought it unlikely he would ever do something like that.

"Hey guys, did you have a good Thanksgiving?" Andy asked as he sat down. Patrick turned to face him. "Woah, Trick, what happened to you? You look like you walked into a lamp post."

"I think we have our backstop story with that one, thanks Andy," Patrick rolled his eyes. "Now I want something really outrageous."

"Story?" Andy's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Come on, guys, let's have some fun with this." Patrick had been hoping they would be more on board with his plan. "There's gonna be rumors, middle school is all about rumors. Let's make them good ones."

"So what really happened?" Andy asked.

"Yeah, how did it happen?" Ashley asked again.

"Some guy was passed out drunk, he accidentally smacked me in the face when I woke him up," Patrick shrugged.

"Yeah, not very exciting," Tran nodded. "Okay, outrageous…" He tailed off, deep in thought.

Patrick was delighted his minimalist version of the truth had been so easily accepted and dismissed by the New Gang, though Ashley looked as though she had more questions. Mrs. Bolton entered home room at that moment so she couldn't ask them.

* * *

Patrick slipped over to the science block after registration. Jepson's room was empty but the door was unlocked. Patrick found some paper and a pen and sat down. This didn't need to be long and complicated.

_To: Ms. E. N. Jepson_

_I O U one favor._

_P. Jane_

_Redeemable at any time. Valid forever. Not transferable._

Patrick signed it with a flourish.

As he was leaving Jepson entered the lab carrying flowers. She stopped dead when she saw him.

"What are you doing here? Are you responsible for these?" She waved the flowers then looked back at Patrick. "Jeez, what happened to your face? Did your foster dad do that?"

"Oh for the love of–" Patrick began, exasperated. "No, Will's a good guy, he didn't hit me. Why does everyone always point the finger at my foster parents? This was an accident. Taylor was waving his hands about when he woke up, caught me across my face before I could get out of his way."

"Damn! I was afraid something like this would happen if I left. People turn mean when they're drunk. Why were you anywhere near him when he was waking up? Where was that son of his?"

"We decided we'd try to wake Simon and get him into bed. Zack went upstairs to sort things out, I was rolling the rug back down when he woke up and… I got in the way, I guess. He didn't mean to hit me."

"Why were you still there? I thought you'd leave when I did."

"Zack, uh, wanted called the cops on me after you left."

"What?"

"He seemed to think I'd hurt his dad then called you afterwards for an alibi. It's okay, he didn't call the cops in the end. The Brodies did."

_"What?"_

"They found me gone after I snuck back to Taylor's house and thought I ran away so they reported me missing. I barely made it off Taylor's property before I was picked up by cops. They spotted this – my lip was bleeding pretty bad right after it happened – and they thought Brodie had hit me. They took me to the emergency room to get me checked me over and you wouldn't believe what one of the doctors thought."

Jepson shook her head. "I don't even want to know. So what are you doing here in my lab?"

Patrick picked up the IOU that he'd left on her desk and gave it to her.

"I told you at Thanksgiving, I owe you. I promised I'd put it in writing. I never welshed on a debt in my life."

Jepson smiled at that. "Never in all your long life," she repeated cynically. "Okay," she continued, looking at Patrick and pocketing the note. "What do you know about the flowers?"

"Nothing. Is there a card?"

"It just says 'thank you', there's no signature."

"I bet they're from Mr. Taylor. He knows you helped him at Thanksgiving, he knows your name and that you're a teacher at this school."

"He already called to thank me, on Friday. He didn't say he beat you up, though. He didn't say you were arrested, either. He just asked whether I would answer some questions about what happened on Thanksgiving. I didn't want to talk to the guy we stripped and washed when he was unconscious so I told him if he had questions he needed to ask you, not me. He never mentioned hitting you, or that the police were involved."

"I wasn't arrested, just picked up by the cops. Mr. Taylor called you on Friday because we had to go clear everything up at the Sheriff's office and he thought they might need to talk to you. I guess he took you at your word when you said you didn't want to get involved."

"Huh."

"Child protective services are still investigating Brodie."

"Why? If he didn't do that –"

"I, ah, play cards, not chess, with the old man on Thursdays and I don't think they like that. They might still contact you, I guess. I was kinda spooked when you showed up which is why I lied to you, sorry. Everyone else knows I lied now so I, um, thought I should tell you before they do. Those are nice flowers," Patrick added.

"Don't try to change the subject! What else did you lie about? Did you break in? Oh my God, did you do something to the old man? Is that why he was unconscious?"

"No! Jeez, do you really think I would hurt him? I told you, he's my friend. You saw him, he drank too much and passed out, that's all. I didn't hurt him. I didn't lie to you about breaking in either, you just… never asked. I picked the lock on the front door when I saw him lying on the floor. I called a bunch or people for help, you answered. That's all true. The part no-one believed was that I broke in to tidy up his house."

Jepson snorted, then chuckled, then started laughing uncontrollably. She put the flowers on her desk, sank to the chair and laughed until tears appeared in her eyes.

"We – broke in – and – and all we did – was clean up!" Patrick laughed too, it sounded funnier each time he retold that part of the story. By the time Jepson regained a modicum of control over herself, the bell had rung and students had started gathering outside the lab. "Oh Patrick," Jepson gasped, giggled briefly, then took a deep breath. "That has to be the stupidest-sounding thing I ever heard."

* * *

Patrick sat between Tran and Abby in art class. It began with a slide show which hadn't been going long when Patrick felt Abby lean against him and whisper to him. It felt delicious to feel her lips so close to his ear in the darkened art room.

"I split up with David Napier," she breathed, and leaned back. When Patrick had collected himself enough to glance in her direction she was watching the screen, apparently engrossed in what Ms. Novak had to say about the iconography of Christmas. Abby was a tease. Did she know she was? It could be fun finding out.

Their project in the run-up to the Christmas break was to design a Christmas card. There were card catalogs on each table and people were moving around the art room, sorting out their boards or checking out the catalogs on the other tables, so Patrick used the chaos as a cover to chat with Abby.

"Are you okay?" Patrick asked.

"Why wouldn't I be? And I could ask you the same question. What happened to you?" Abby countered.

"Some people find breaking up is hard," Patrick ventured, ignoring her question.

"Yeah, well, they probably didn't break up with the world's biggest jackass," Abby retorted.

"What did he do?"

"First he acted all jealous. Remember that lunchtime when you told me your dad was a pirate? We argued and he stopped speaking to me. We argued again on the next day and Kim told me last week what he did that lunch break."

"What did he do?"

"He only took Annelie Weisz out to the bleachers! She was saying all through the rest of that week that she was his girlfriend now but he never said anything to me, he thought Kim would tell me so he wouldn't have to do it himself."

"Ouch," Patrick said sympathetically.

"I mean, I don't mind breaking up with him, not really, but I thought that he asked me out because he liked me. As soon as I said yes he wanted me to act like a cheerleader and hang around the basketball team all the time. I mean why? He was always talking with the team, not me, and those girls are only interested in boyfriends and makeup and going to the mall. He never came to see me on the quiz team, but I was supposed to turn out for every basketball game!"

"It sounds like he didn't spend any time really getting to know you as a person."

"But he does know me. Kim's been my best friend forever, I've known David since first grade. I thought he was nice. Turns out he just wanted a girlfriend and I was –" Abby came to a sudden halt.

"In the wrong place at the wrong time?"

"Yeah. Apparently." Bitterness filled these words.

"Well you know what they say. The best way to get even is to get even."

"Yeah, I should go over there at lunch break and –"

"Give him a piece of your mind? Really? In front of the whole school, while he's surrounded by jocks and cheerleaders? I mean, I can see how it might be cathartic but don't you think you might feel just a teeny bit embarrassed afterwards?"

"You're right. Again. I should just let it go," Abby agreed miserably.

"Well I didn't say that," Patrick grinned. "I've got an idea that would stop him ever wanting to take another girl to the bleachers. If, y'know, you wanted to find some way to let everyone know what a jerk he is." Patrick was smiling at her with eyes full of mischief and Abby couldn't help smiling back.

"Keep talking," she said.

"First tell me you'll come to the movies with me on Friday."

* * *

_Dear Dad,_

_I got a letter from Lily, they are all doing fine. I enclose one of the photos she sent me. I have written back to her with your prison address, I am sure she'll write to you soon._

The picture was of a smiling Lily holding a newborn, a grinning Estaban next to her with their older child sat on his knee. Lily would never have sent this particular photo to Alex, he thought. The boy should know better, even if they didn't ever talk about his mom. He briefly wondered what Lily had written to Patrick. If it was anything like the photo Alex really didn't want to know. Happy fucking families. The photo went back in the envelope.

_Overleaf are the prices I found for canvas and microphones in San Francisco. The chandler can make up canvas panels of any shape so these quotes are for our exact specifications. If you give me the OK I shall call him to say go ahead with the order._

These prices looked better, the boy was doing well with the winter expenses. If he kept this up it was another job Alex could leave to Paddy in future.

_I got into a little trouble over Thanksgiving._

That sounded ominous. Paddy could only mean trouble with the law.

_I got into a little trouble over Thanksgiving. I play poker (not for money) with Mr. Taylor every Thursday. Brodie knows, he usually takes me, but I went by myself on Thanksgiving. Taylor was alone and passed out drunk when I got there. I broke in, got help dealing with him but had to return for my curfew at 10. When I snuck out later to go back, the Brodies found out and reported me missing to the cops, who picked me up when I left Taylor's place. Things got complicated after that_

Things got complicated after that? They sounded complicated enough already.

_Things got complicated after that, because in the course of the evening I picked up a cut lip, some bruises on my face and a scrape all down my front. When the Ruskins heard about it they came to visit me mob-handed, thinking it had been Brodie. It was actually Mr. Taylor, he hit me just the once and by accident, when he woke up and found someone unexpectedly in his house. I can tell you the full story when I visit but I wanted to write and let you know because you might hear this story from the Barsockys or one of the others who turned up with Pops and Billy on Saturday._

Well that wasn't good. Sneaking out? Being picked up by the cops? Getting hit? If the lawyer had been passed out drunk when Patrick arrived he clearly hadn't invited the boy in. Alex didn't blame Taylor if he took a swing at Patrick under those circumstances – though the cops might. He would certainly blame Patrick if he'd gotten himself or Taylor – or (God forbid) any of the Ruskins – in trouble with the law. Alex swore and carried on reading.

_I wasn't arrested for B+E so I still don't have a juvie record. Taylor also wasn't, in fact he sorted the whole thing out_

That was the short version of a much longer story.

_in fact he sorted the whole thing out, you will be pleased to hear. Neither of us is facing charges but the whole affair got me thinking about trust._

What the hell? Paddy's suddenly off the excellence train and he's moved onto trust now?

_got me thinking about trust. Who do you trust? I don't want names of people, I mean how do you decide who to trust? What someone says, of course, we can both spot lies four times out of five._

They both were pretty good at spotting lies. What concerned Alex more was that his son knew he was a good liar. Now he was writing to him about trust? That couldn't be good. Alex wanted to be angry with Paddy but all he felt was a knot of anxiety in his gut.

_Sometimes people do not know they are lying: flaky people, fantasists and people passing on other people's lies spring to mind straight away, not to mention the ones who do know they are lying but are good at it._

Paddy had looked so disappointed at the Sheriff's office when he learned that ten grand was gone. Beforehand Alex had encouraged the boy by talking about all the ways the money could improve their lives. Was he saying he thought Alex was flaky? Or a fantasist? Again the thought rose unbidden that Patrick already knew he was a good liar although Alex knew that Patrick was a better one.

_I never expected the Brodies to call the cops if I snuck out, I clearly can't anticipate their actions as well as I thought. I had no idea they would assume I had run away_

That didn't sound good, anticipating how people would react was a big part of everything they did. Alex wasn't surprised the foster parents had called the cops. Why hadn't Patrick expected it? Alex thought about their lives. When he was a kid himself they spent winters in Florida. Patrick's granddad would rent an apartment or tiny tract house in Gibsonton and Alex and Lily would live like townie kids until carnival season came around again. Alex realized with a jolt that Patrick's experience of townie life was all from the outside. Stoney Ridge was just the trailer park, a gas station and a convenience store. Staying there over winter was much more like living on a carnival lot than living like a townie. Having his son stay with a foster family suddenly seemed more than a necessary evil to Alex.

_I had no idea they would assume I had run away, or that they would call in the cops rather than the neighbors to deal with a missing kid._

_If I can't tell how someone is going to react all I'm left with is whether or not to trust them. I do trust the Brodies to take care of me but clearly can't trust them as I would the Barsockys or Ruskins. What is your take on this, Dad?_

_Love,_

_Paddy_

Okay, the boy was thinking about his foster parents siccing the cops onto him for sneaking out, not how Alex spent the con money. That was a relief though it didn't completely reassure Alex. He would have to think carefully about his reply. Paddy had never asked Alex about trust before.

Alex compartmentalized his trust. He trusted the crews to set up the rides right. He trusted the Ruskins to attract crowds to their carnivals. He trusted the Boy Wonder brand to then draw paying audiences into their tent. He trusted Paddy with the housekeeping money but he hid the bulk of his – their – cash around the vehicle because he didn't trust anyone, not even his son. Alex had trusted his wife but then Maura had died: he hadn't really trusted anyone since that day, not his sister, not even his son. Lily was gone now and he knew even Paddy would leave him eventually.

_Dear Paddy,_

_Go ahead and order the canvas, but wait until after Christmas to buy the mics. They may not be cheaper then but they won't be more expensive._

_Failing to anticipate the Brodies is bad. You've been there a month, you should have known better. Get yourself up to speed with how those townies think ASAP. You got lucky this time but you can't afford another screw-up. You need to work harder at keeping out of trouble._

_You don't ever want to have to rely on trust. When you can't get a good read on someone for whatever reason, a reliable backstop is that you can trust people to act in their own self-interest. Even when a person is hard to read, their situation (and so their self-interest at that moment) is much easier to draw out of them, use yes/no questions like I taught you. That is how you know you can trust any carny to be on your side in a confrontation, even if you just met him. We hang together or they will hang us all separately, as the old saying goes._

_Religion can change what a person thinks is in their self-interest, watch out for that. Also everyone has something they want, even fools, fantasists and flakes. If they want it enough they can act against their own self-interest in order to get it. Finally people who are being forced to act against their own interests are usually easy to spot, they will be nervous or scared._

_Never trust anyone in a uniform or in authority and remember money can't buy loyalty._

_Don't run away again. Stay out of trouble!_

_Love,_

_Dad_


End file.
